


Growing Mallows

by Ysmirel



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: (in the end notes to avoid spoilers), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Destroying gender normativity 101, F/M, Female MC - Freeform, I judged canon and found it unworthy, I love Lucifer, I'm keeping the general outline of the plot, Multi, No beta we die like lilith, Slow Burn, Whether She Likes It or Not, an attempt at suicide was made, and if you don't you shouldn't be reading this yet, and taking these bitches on a ride, and we don't look back, boy I sure love how we arent related to the boys, but it's fine bc he has a degradation kink lol, chapters with TW will have an asterisk after the title, don't let the humor lull you into a false sense of security, for self-destructive behaviour, from ch.7 onwards there will be trigger warnings in each chapter, in any way possible, love to annoy him I mean, more or less, no blood relation here at all officer, now with an extra side of bullying levi, seriously tho we leave canon behind on the first chapter, this is a story about healing mentally and emotionally, tw, when needed, which will happen despite MC's best efforts, with Asmo, ya'll know already who the major character death is for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:54:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 62,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24656416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ysmirel/pseuds/Ysmirel
Summary: “Oh, yes, and two sugars please. Three, if it's too bitter, I just can't stand bitter things you know?” she says conversationally.It doesn't escape Lucifer how this is the first time that she has actually shared anything about herself with him, or at least with him present. Figures, that it would be something that could also be taken as her calling him bitter. She would probably get along well with Barbatos, being a master of passive-agressiveness as he is, or perhaps they would hate each other with a passion. One never knows, with those types.Regardless, he pours the tea – a rich purple colour with dark spots that she eyes curiously – and then adds the lukewarm milk and sugar, as per requested. If anything else, he cannot be accused of not being a gracious host, he thinks with a touch of dark humour. He might be serving her poison, but at least he is being polite about it."(I got pissed at all the death threats MC was getting in the game, so I thought, 'hey, what would happen if we completely take that leverage away from the brothers?'. Apparently, the result is a very salty MC who just couldn't care less about their drama.)
Relationships: Asmodeus/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Beelzebub/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Belphegor/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Leviathan/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Lucifer/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Main Character/Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Main Character/Satan (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 319
Kudos: 952





	1. Tethering

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for a suicide attempt. There is no blood to speak of and no violence, but if you are susceptible to this sort of thing, know that this fic hinges on suicide ideation. Please, I ask you to have your health as the top priority and leave this fic, because even if there is humour, things get pretty real pretty fast. Whether you continue to read or not, know that I love you, even if I don't know you, and you deserve to be loved and happy.

The first thing Lucifer notices about the human, surprising no one, is that she is unremarkable. And perhaps a tad stupid.

Upon her arrival, she barely reacts; blinks, looks around her, one hand still inside the pocket of her jacket, the other still holding a smoothie up. The hot pink straw hasn't left her mouth for a moment.

“Pardon the suddeness of your arrival, you must be feeling quite shocked, but allow me to be the first one to welcome you to the Devildom.”

Lord Diavolo speaks, pulling her attention from where it had been, inspecting one of the chandeliers hanging from the ribbed vaults. This only makes the slurping sound intensify, though Lucifer is mildly impressed at how she manages to, somehow, add an alarmed quality to it. He has a hard time deciphering her face, which isn't to say that she is inexpressive, only that he cannot name the emotion it's conveying. Distressed? Incredulous, perhaps? Lord Diavolo pauses in his explanation, looking at her expectantly. Her left eye twitches.

This isn't going well.

She remains silent even when Lucifer inserts himself into the conversation, hoping to garner some sort of reaction, though the only thing they get is a slight rise of her eyebrows when Lord Diavolo introduces him. It isn't until he gives her the D.D.D. they procured for her that she finally lets go of the straw and speaks for the first time.

“This,” she says conversationally, while looking at the D.D.D. in her hands, “has to be the weirdest kidnapping I've been a part of. I mean, props for the story and the neat hideout – I'm loving the aesthetic – but if you're going to try gaslighting me, shouldn't you go for something more realistic?”

Lord Diavolo opens his mouth, about to answer, but he is immediately and rudely interrupted. “And you're going to give me a phone? Really? Is this some sort of mind game? Are we hoping for Stockholm syndrome or something? Work with me here guys, I'm confused. Also, what's with this so-called,” she rises her hands to make quotation marks, her smoothie at a precarious angle, “paper I have to write. Is that what we're calling ransom notes now? Are you going to grade it and mark my spelling mistakes in red?”

Lucifer is debating whether or not it would be acceptable to tear the human apart in front of Lord Diavolo and just get a new one, when Lord Diavolo bursts out laughing. The human looks at him with a rised eyebrow, and then at Lucifer, as if asking for confirmation that, yes, he is like _that_. Lucifer pinches the bridge of his nose, ignoring her as best as he can. They should not be dealing with this first thing in the morning.

When he speaks, he does it through gritted teeth. “This is not a kidnapping-”

“It sounds a lot like it.”

“-Do _not_ interrupt me.”

She closes her mouth with an audible click and promptly latches onto her smoothie yet again, restarting the slurping noises and making no move to actually use the D.D.D. to call Mammon. He takes this to mean that she is willing to listen.

It better be.

He is going to start again from the beginning, already feeling his headache coming, when Lord Diavolo places a hand on his shoulder, patting it amicably. Lucifer nods and takes a step back, letting him take control of the situation. If he wants to deal with this, far be it from Lucifer to stop him.

“I understand how this would be hard to believe, but- what was it that humans used to say? One image is worth a thousand words? Yes, I think it would be best to show you.” And with that, his demon form materializes and he stands before the human expectantly.

Lucifer should have known better than to let Lord Diavolo handle it, there was a reason why they agreed not to use their demon forms on their first meeting. Now, on top of everything else, they will have to deal with a panicking human. Except- Except the human is completely unfazed by this.

“Nah,” she says, dismissive. “That's just, like, a trick. Or something. Not buying it.”

Lord Diavolo remains as cheerful as ever. “Oh, but it's real!” he says, moving his wings for emphasis. The human tilts her head to the side, lowering her drink again in what Lucifer identifies as interest. Not a spark of fear in sight, oddly enough.

 _Well_ , he thinks, _as long as she isn't screaming and crying, this might be salvageable_.

Then, because his father up above must consider that Lucifer hasn't suffered enough for his transgressions already, Lord Diavolo, heir to the throne and next ruler of the Devildom, says, “do you want to touch them?”

_And she accepts_.

The human deposits her smoothie and the D.D.D. on the closest table and approaches Lord Diavolo like one might do with a feral animal, rising a hand to touch one of his wings, only to retract it when it twitches in anticipation. She frowns, looking at Lord Diavolo, perhaps in search of discomfort or hidden ill intentions, but she is only met with an encouraging smile. Finally, she shrugs, and her fingers start tracing the gold finery before going down to inspect the membrane between the bones and muscles. When there is no apparent repercussion to her explorations, she coaxes the wing open, staring at it against the light.

“It has veins,” she announces, much to Lord Diavolo's delight.

“You can touch me as well, darling. I don't bite.” Asmodeus, quick to show interest whenever any kind of bodily exploration is involved, had come down from his seat as well without Lucifer noticing. A quick look around shows that Satan is standing nearby, barely hiding his amusement at Lucifer's exasperation, and Beelzebub is- ah, there he is.

A loud slurping sound stops the human from answering Asmodeus, and she turns towards where Beelzebub is drinking her abandoned smoothie, Lord Diavolo's wing still in hand. 'My smoothie', she mouths silently, grieving the loss of her fruity drink, her expression equal parts dejected and incredulous. She looks so much like a kicked puppy that Lucifer almost laughs at the absurdity of the situation.

“ _Oh my_ , an indirect kiss. How forward of you, Beel,” Asmodeus says, covering his mouth with a delicate hand. Beelzebub doesn't seem to hear him or, if he does, he ignores his comment. Lord Diavolo laughs, but he makes no movement to step away from the human, who is still very much in his personal space. Then again, Lucifer thinks, aggravated, Lord Diavolo has never had one of those.

This situation is quickly going off the rails. There was a script that they had agreed on. There was a script and now there's just- this. And Lucifer is going to have to deal with whatever _this_ is for a year. He considers flipping off the ceiling in case there's some sort of divine intervention going on, but he refrains.

He is beginning to manage his irritation when the human speaks again, shattering all his hard work in under a second. “So I finally kicked the bucket, huh?” Which isn't a thing one should say with only mild interest. Or at least, Lucifer doesn't think it's a common occurrence amongst humans to dismiss their own death like that.

“You don't seem to be upset or surprised at being in what humans refer to as Hell,” Satan points out, speaking for the first time.

The human merely shrugs in a 'what can you do' sort of gesture. At least she has stopped touching Lord Diavolo's wings, though she is still standing in the same spot, one breath away from one of the most powerful beings in the Devildom without a care in the world.

It takes about ten minutes to convince her that, no, she isn't dead and no, she can't leave even though she isn't dead yet.

“So... why am I here again?” she asks. It takes all of Lucifer's control not to kill her in that same moment. Out of the corner of one eye he sees Satan cover his smirk with a hand, trying not to show his amusement at Lucifer's predicament and failing miserably.

“Did you not understand the previous explanation?” Lucifer pushes the words out through gritted teeth.

Her mouth twists in a semi-grimace. “I thought it was a lie, so I wasn't paying attention. I only heard the thing about writing a paper at the end.”

Another ten minutes of their lives are lost in a new explanation and when he is finished she is way more preoccupied with her new duties than she was with the prospect of being dead. “What do you mean I have to go to demon school-”

“Its name is RAD and it isn't a-”

“-I finished school ages ago! I finished _college_! And you're telling me that I have to do that again for a whole year? I'm not going back to that, thanks.”

Lucifer breathes through his nose, counts to five, smiles. “As I said before. Do. Not. Interrupt. Me.”

She seems taken aback by his tone, though no more scared than before. Whatever retort she might have had dies an early death when Lord Diavolo pats her back, making her stumble a step forward and look back at him with a frown. “Ah, but you see, the subjects at RAD are quite different from the ones you would encounter in the human world,” he points out. “There is alchemy, Devildom history, demon biology, theory and history of magic...”

That seems to gain her interest well enough, because her usual half lidded stare has disappeared, and she seems more awake than ever. Bribed with knowledge, just like Solomon. Perhaps the human they picked isn't as different from him as they had hoped, or perhaps the thirst for knowledge is merely a human trait that they all share. They would have to bring more exchange students to the Devildom to find out, however, and Lucifer will set this realm on fire before having to deal with that particular nightmare. Two of them are enough already, and now he has to make sure that they don't get too close. He dreads the consequences of that ever happening. His only consolation is that this human's magic is dormant, and if she hasn't managed to tap into her meager reserves yet, she most likely never will.

“She seems nice,” Lord Diavolo remarks when she is finally – _finally_ – being escorted away by Mammon.

* * *

The second thing he notices about the human is that she is in his office, standing in front of his desk. Yesterday she spent the evening buying her RAD uniforms with Asmodeus – which is odd, as he had thought she would go with Mammon, but also expected, because Asmodeus would never pass up an opportunity to go shopping. He is pleased to see that she has found a cut that she likes, even if it isn't the reglamentary coat, and her shirt isn't green as it ought to be. He feels like this is the best he is going to get, anyways, and he knows when to pick his battles. After all, the academy isn't all that strict where the uniform is concerned. Lord Diavolo has always encouraged 'personal expression' in its halls.

But then, that isn't the reason why she's here.

“Come again?” he asks. Surely, he must have heard wrong.

“I said that Levi wanted me to find out where you put Mammon's credit card.”

Ah, yes, that makes sense.

Except it doesn't. Not at all. Why is she telling him, in the first place, if she is supposed to be prying that information out of him? The mere concept of her actually doing that without him noticing is absurd, of course, but telling him outright sounds counterproductive. It would make sense if she was telling him in the hopes of earning his favour somehow, but she doesn't seem to care about that. Instead, she just- came to his office and said that with a straight face, like she was commenting on the weather. Like a conversation starter.

He sighs, completely at a loss. Well, he decides, there is no shame in asking. “And aren't you supposed to do that with a bit more of subtlety? Why tell me about it?”

The human shrugs, something that she does often. “I told him that I'd ask, and I did. I don't really care where Mammon's credit card is, so whether you tell me or not is not my problem, and he can't exactly blame me for you not telling me.” She adds the last part with a sardonic smile.

Well, that... certainly makes sense. Lucifer tilts his head, his interest piqued. He has never met someone so brutally honest. Even Beel seems to put some deliberation in his truths when he speaks, like he has turned the words in his head a thousand times before deciding that speaking them is worth the effort. She just says things. With no filter at all. He can't tell if the straightforward way in which she deals with everything is born out of ignorance or something else, and it is both bewildering and amusing.

Lucifer hums. What would she do if he just- told her? Would she tell Levi where the credit card is? Would she tell Mammon? Perhaps nobody at all? Well, now he is curious to see what she would do, and there is no harm done anyways, he can get that credit card back whenever he wants. At the very least, this will keep her busy and out of his hair.

“Very well, then, I will reward your honesty with honesty, but don't expect such treatment in the future.” It is a good idea to reward her for speaking the truth, he tells himself, he doesn't want her hiding anything from him in the future, and it doesn't seem like fear will be a deterrant for this particular human. What was that saying again? You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. “The credit card, if you want to know, is in the freezer.”

“In the freezer,” she repeats without intonation.

Lucifer suppresses the smile of amusement at his own joke, keeping a straight face. “That is what I said, yes. Is there anything you would like to say about it?”

“Nope.” The word pops out of her mouth as natural as breathing, and with a lazy salute – he cannot decide whether it is meant in a mocking way or if she is being completely serious – she is gone, closing the door behind her with unexpected delicacy.

It is even more unexpected, though, when the next day finds Levi complaining about her not being able to get the information he asked for. By the way he is squabbling with Mammon about the lost credit card, it seems like she hasn't told the second born either. Lucifer had been sure that she would use the credit card to goad Mammon into a pact, otherwise why would Leviathan be interested in her finding it? He would have no use of it himself, as he couldn't get his money back without giving it to Mammon, and once he had given it to him, there would be no guarantee that Mammon would keep his word.

But none of that matters because she has, apparently, told nobody.

He manages to make eye contact with her across the table, rising an eyebrow in a silent question and ignoring the way Satan and Asmodeus immediately catch the gesture, but her expression remains the same and it's clear that she has no intention of comunicating her thought process via silent staring. He drops the subject and does his best to not pay attention to the glances Asmodeus and Satan throw between them; if they are so curious about what's going on, they can ask her directly.

After breakfast, he makes his way to the kitchen. The credit card is exactly where he left it, untouched and still encased in ice. Interesting. Apparently, this human isn't as similar to Solomon as he had thought. He wouldn't have passed the opportunity to make a pact with one of the Avatars of Sin.

Curiosity sated, he leaves the house and puts it out of his mind, he has more important things to do than psychoanalysing their new guest.

* * *

The third, and probably the most worrying thing, Lucifer notices about her is her lack of self-preservation.

“Oh? That would be _so_ kind of you,” she says. Her smile is all teeth and doesn't reach her eyes. _Dangerous_ , his mind provides, _she is dangerous_. Lucifer believes what it says for a total of none seconds, and scoffs at what the human girl has to say next.

“I have been pretty tired lately, actually. Do you think we could go make that tea right now? Otherwise I don't think I'll be able to sleep for the rest of the night.”

Her eyes stray to the stairs behind him, the meaning of her words very clear. Did she not hear him when he said that that particular tea would put her to sleep _permanently_? Although... that is not it at all, is it? She is testing him, seeing how far she can push before he snaps. She is perfectly aware that, per Lord Diavolo's orders, no one is allowed to lay a hand on her, and is trying to see how much she can get away with.

He realizes, perhaps too late, that they have invited a viper to nest in their home. As if it wasn't enough with Solomon.

Nevertheless, he cannot let her think that she is immune to any threats he might issue, or she will start pushing further and further. Even if she is right in her assumption that he is under strict orders to keep her safe and healthy, and that includes – Lord Diavolo was very specific – not harming her directly. So his usual punishments are out. That doesn't mean that she has to know, though.

He could allow her to go upstairs. After all, the door to Belphegor's room is invisible to a human like her. But that would make her believe that she can do whatever she wants without consecuences, and that is unnacceptable. So, calling her bluff it is. He will make her the tea, she won't drink it – obviously, because it's poisonous to humans – and she will get away from the stairs, terrified with the knowledge that she isn't as demon-proof as she had hoped.

Lucifer answers her smile with one of his own. “Of course,” he says, “after you.”

She seems perfectly relaxed during their walk towards the kitchen, her eyes half lidded with her usual aloofnes, a familiar expression turned uncanny by the addition of a pleased smile. Looking back, if he had to point exactly where everything went downhill, it would be that damn walk. He should have known that something was wrong; nobody was so happy to walk towards their death, even if it was to call his bluff. She should have been at the very least a little nervous, a little fidgety. There should have been a ' _what if_ ' plaguing her mind that would make her falter, if only for one step. Instead, she looked at him in perfect contentment, from her perch at one of the kitchen's stools, as he prepared what could only be a death sentence for her.

Her hands stayed still on the table, her back perfectly straight, her eyes following the movements of his hands as he put the kettle over the fire. She looked curious, attentive, like a child watching her grandma making cookies. Not a sign of worry in her face, even when he started talking about the components of this particular tea blend. Even when he described, in excruciating detail, the way some demons had procured it to their human pacts when asked for a poison. There were still stories passed down about those instances, after all, even if they were considered fairytales. Even if they all lied at the end.

Still, he notices none of these things, as obvious as they will seem after the fact, and so he places the teacup in front of her with a delicate clink of porcelain and smiles. Her own smile widens, surprising him by the way it reaches her eyes, and that is the only instance of him noticing something out of the ordinary. He dismisses it as her trying to unnerve him and asks if she would like some milk to go along with it.

“Oh, yes, and two sugars please. Three, if it's too bitter, I just can't stand bitter things you know?” she says conversationally.

It doesn't escape Lucifer how this is the first time that she has actually shared anything about herself with him, or at least with him present. Figures, that it would be something that could also be taken as her calling _him_ bitter. She would probably get along well with Barbatos, being a master of passive-agressiveness as he is, or perhaps they would hate each other with a passion. One never knows, with those types.

Regardless, he pours the tea – a rich purple colour with dark spots that she eyes curiously – and then adds the lukewarm milk and sugar, as per requested. If anything else, he cannot be accused of not being a gracious host, he thinks with a touch of dark humour. He might be serving her poison, but at least he is being polite about it.

Lucifer pours a cup for himself and observes as she turns her own cup in her hands inspecting the liquid inside, no doubt stalling now that her lie has been exposed. He takes a sip to hide his smile of amusement, awaiting the moment she will finally cave in and admit that it was all a bluff. Her tenacity until now has impressed him, he isn't going to lie. After all, it isn't everyday that he finds someone other than Satan willing to challenge him to a battle of wits, but despite her commendable efforts-

The human rises the cup to her lips, still smiling. She inhales deeply, as if enjoying the rich smell of the tea before tasting it, and then her smile widens. Without breaking eye-contact with him, she tilts the cup and drinks its contents.

Lucifer watches as she finishes and places the cup back in its small plate, still looking him in the eyes, still maintaining that smile. He doesn't think he has ever seen this expression on her face. Every emotion she has shown, until now, has been mitigated by the fact that her eyes have always betrayed her disinterest. Even when she seemed intrigued by something, it was clinical and detached, as if dimmed by some unseen barrier. Only now that she has drank a cup full of poison in front of him does she look fully awake and present, even amused. Alive. 

But Lucifer has no time to think about that. He curses under his breath- he should have made something innocuous and pretended it was poisonous, even if he was sure that the human wouldn't be stupid enough to _actually drink it_. Nevermind that, now. Do they have something that can act as an antidote at the house? No, of course not, why would they? They have never needed something like that until now. A part of him makes a note to stock up on those from now on, _if_ the human makes it out of this alive. _If_ Lucifer doesn't kill her afterwards for the trouble.

As if sensing his inner turmoil, her expression turns mischievous, her grin a mirror of the first one she had given him in front of the stairs, the one that had screamed danger. He should have listened to the part of him that had been perturbed by it. “So, how long until I shuffle off this mortal coil, as it were?”

He grits his teeth and chooses not to answer to her taunt. What is wrong with her? She shouldn't be so amused by her own demise, unless she thinks that whatever she drank was actually harmless, which would actually make more sense than her willingness to die, now that he thinks about it-

Focus. He has to focus, leave those thoughts for later. How long until her death, indeed? They had dinner not long ago and she ate a generous portion, so that should help slow the digestion of the poison and, luckily, adding milk means that she ingested less quantity. On the other hand, the food she will have already ingested and the three damned sugar cubes will probably make her blood pressure rise, which isn't good.

A quick look through the pantry tells him that they do, in fact, have all the ingredients to counter the effects of the poison. Less fortunate is the fact that he doesn't know the quantity in which they have to be mixed. Again, why would he? They have never needed to worry about poison before, they're demons, and as well read as he is, he doesn't go around memorising every little thing he reads about, that is more Satan's thing-

_Oh, no_.

He is going to have to tell Satan about it, isn't he? Maybe he could just go and get one of the books on antidotes from the library- But which one? And he doesn't exactly have all the time in the world to read it, considering that there is a human of particular importance to Lord Diavolo's plans currently dying in his kitchen. Poisoned by a tea that Lucifer brewed. In a cup that he poured for her, personally.

Okay, so he is getting Satan, after all. Hopefully, he will be still up, reading. If Lucifer has to wake him up and calm him down after he subsequently goes into a rage, they might find the human dead by the time they reach the kitchen. Speaking of which-

He risks a glance at said human and his heart almost stops upon finding her resting her head on one hand, her eyes closed. He shakes her, not caring about keeping his composure. He is too angry for that, and he is already doing his best to not release his demon form.

She levels an offended glare on him. “What was _that_ for?!”

“Don't fall asleep, idiot, or have you forgotten what I said before about not waking up?” he berates. It doesn't seem to frighten her at all, if anything, she looks confused.

“Uh, yes? Isn't that the point?”

...Alright.

He has no time to think about _that_ , right now, so he grabs her by an arm and starts walking at a brisk pace. If she doesn't have any interest in staying awake – and he is not thinking about it – he can at least make sure that someone else takes care of that. Who else might be awake right now, though? He has no time to go explaining the situation to a sleep-addled idiot, and there's no guarantee that they won't fall right back asleep once he leaves.

He and Satan will be working on the antidote, so they are out. Mammon sleeps like the dead and Asmodeus will probably pretend to be asleep even if he wakes up out of spite. Beelzebub will wake up, but he most likely will fall asleep right back even before Lucifer leaves and he might even eat her in his sleep, which would be inconvenient. Leviathan... Leviathan is probably awake too, playing videogames, and even if he complains about it, he will follow Lucifer's orders, _or else_. Besides, other than Asmodeus, he is the closest to Satan's room.

The human isn't making things easy for him, yanking on her arm and protesting loudly, and it's getting harder and harder to not give in and snarl at her. After a particularly loud expletive, his patience gives out and he picks her up under his arm. It might not stop her from deploying her surprisingly colorful vocabulary, but at least she isn't hindering their advance with her nonsensical pulling, and that means that he is closer to reaching their destination.

Finally, he arrives at Leviathan's room, entering without even bothering to knock. Leviathan, who had been playing with a hand-held console in his bath tub, is half-way to incorporating when he gets a handful of angry human thrown at him.

“Keep her awake or I'll cut you off the internet for three months. And don't let her off your sight.”

Leviathan knows better than to argue with his tone, and shuts his mouth, trapping any complaints he might have had within its confines. The last thing Lucifer hears before exiting his brother's room is his whispered ' _what did you do_?'.

Lucifer takes a moment to compose himself before rapping his knuckles on Satan's door. He knows that seeming agitated or barging in will only make things more difficult, so a few seconds are a cheap price to pay, compared to the extra minutes it would take to convince his brother of listening to him.

“May I come in?” he asks, pleased to hear that his voice betrays none of his urgency. Knowing Satan, he might have made him wait just to be contrary if he had known that he is in a hurry.

“Come in,” comes the muffled reply.

Lucifer sees no point in delaying the inevitable. “The human is poisoned,” he announces. Under any other circumstances, he might have enjoyed his brother's surprise and incredulity, but he finds that he has no time for that, at the moment. “She drank a whole cup of nightshade tea.”

Satan frowns. “Adult humans need a dosage of at least ten berries for-”

“ _Devildom_ nightshade.”

That seems to convey the gravity of the situation, and Satan sets his book down beside him, not bothering to find a bookmark. They both make their way to the kitchen in silence, and Lucifer only barely manages to stifle the surge of pride he feels at seeing his brother so focused on this task, knowing exactly what is needed of him without even having to ask.

But that, and many other things, will have to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer was a rebellious teenager that escaped home with his five baby brothers and his son and now he has fully evolved into a PTA mom who has a hot boss don't @ me.
> 
> F in the chat for the smoothie :(


	2. Paroxysm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone actually tries to tempt MC into falling prey to their respective sin because, like, isn't that what they were supposed to be doing?? Like they hinted at it in the intro when they talk about your soul and stuff but then they dont?? even try??? to corrupt you????  
> Unacceptable. Commit to it, you cowards.
> 
> Also we finally learn her name :3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think that the brothers know how to love the same way humans do... yet.

The human is lounging in one of his couches. She's just- sprawled there, without a care in the world, turning some plastic figurine she found on one of the bags strewn about in her hands.

Mammon isn't sure why he brought her here, to be honest, other than he was bored and didn't feel like being antagonised by any of his brothers. Moreso after finding out that Levi had wanted to trick him into a pact by using Goldie. He isn't sure if he's disaapointed that the human couldn't learn where his Goldie was, or relieved that she didn't. Still, talking to her was preferable to talking to his brothers right now. So here they are.

Her whole carefree attitude is a bit unnerving, though. Mammon has met humans before- granted, it was way back, when the entrance wasn't blocked to anyone that wasn't Diavolo or Lucifer, but really, how much can they change in a few hundred years? Usually, once they realized he was a demon, they would make that weird cross gesture or mutter a prayer and scurry away in fear. Or just, like, be afraid, in general.

(He is aware that Solomon doesn't exactly do that either, but he's an outlier and he shouldn't count.)

Anyways, the thing is that she is weird. And not only because of that, no; she also hasn't made fun of him or called him a scumbag ever since she arrived. And, as stated before, she isn't doing it out of fear or anything. It's obvious that she doesn't even register him as a threat, if the loose-limbed way she is draping herself over his couch is anything to go by. So, what's her deal? She must want something from him, clearly, because otherwise she wouldn't be nice to him.

But what _does_ she want? It isn't money or anything of value, because he hasn't felt a sliver of greed come from her ever since he met her – and doesn't that just rankle – and she doesn't seem to pay attention to any of the many expensive things Mammon has accumulated in his room. No, she's just inspecting that stupid, cheap, plastic figurine like it's the most interesting thing in the world.

So, she's unnerving _and_ irritating.

Huffing, Mammon picks up one of the many jewels he has laying around, a diamond necklace that sparkles in the light like a hundred captured stars. If Mammon could own the stars, he would; they are pretty and he likes pretty things. Just to have them, to look at, to know they're his. But he can't own the stars, and precious stones are the next best thing. He turns it in his hands, enjoying the way the diamonds glimmer in every color of the spectrum, connected to each other by pale gold, and smiles to himself.

Asmodeus had been particularly annoying the day of her arrival after their shopping trip, complaining about her endlessly the moment she was out of earshot. Apparently, none of his attempts at flirting with her had worked in the least. He hadn't felt even a hint of lust. None, zero, zilch. Negative lust. Even though he had, apparently, been all over her the whole shopping trip. No one had asked what 'all over her' meant, but seeing Asmo so worked up about it had been funny, to say the least.

The fact that he had failed to tempt her was a bit odd, considering that he had been extremely good at it before they stopped having as much contact with humans, but they attributed it to the fact that they were all probably out of practice after all this time.

Mammon smiles to himself. Well, now is as good of a time to get some practice as any. And he has an unsuspecting human all to himself, so why not? Looking at her out of the corner of his eye, he throws the diamond necklace on his bed and chooses some other trinkets that will fit her better. She's wearing an orange dress that reaches a bit beyond her calves, leaving only her shoulders and arms naked, so body jewelry is out. He ends up choosing a few necklaces of varying lengthts, as well as copious amounts of bracelets and rings and, on a whim, a particularly pretty anklet made with a single opal encased in gold. The predominant gems on the rest of the jewelry are sapphires and amethysts, with one or two garnets thrown in. The blue and purple hues will look the best coupled with all that orange, he thinks.

“Ya know,” he says as he turns to walk towards her, his hands overflowing with precious stones and gold, “if you're gonna stay in my room, takin' up my space, ya might as well help with this.”

That, if not the clinking of the jewelry as he moves, seems to finally draw her attention away from the figurine. She looks at his hands and tilts her head, rising an eyebrow in inquiry, but she makes no comment or gives any sign of wanting to move. More frustrating than that, though, is the fact that there's still no sign of greed in her eyes. He might as well be holding ropes.

Despite her silence, he trudges on.

“Here, put these on, I need ta know how they look on pale skin,” he says, dropping some of the bracelets on her lap. If she asks, he will say that it's because of one of his modeling gigs, but he doubts she will; humans rarely ask questions when something expensive falls on their lap. Quite literally, in this case.

She throws her head back over the armrest, groaning, like putting expensive jewelry on is a chore, but relents after it's clear that Mammon won't back down just because she finds this mildly inconvenient. She scoots back, making some room for him in the couch and starts to, begrudgingly, put some of the bracelets on, muttering curses under her breath.

Mammon loses his patience after the third time that she fails to close the clasp of a bracelet and ends up helping, if only to hurry things along. He really hopes that the spike of greed when she finally sees herself covered head to toe with part of his tresure is worth it – taking it away from her after she finally wants it will be really cathartic – because he can't believe he's going to such lenghts just for a human. Usually, they would already be his by the time they even saw all those riches just barely out of touch, but apparently this one is particularly dense. Figures.

It takes about five whole minutes to completely swathe her in his precious collection; he draws one of her ankles to his lap, eliciting a protest and a slap to his arm that he barely feels when she is dragged along with it. He dismisses it, absorbed as he is in his project, and ties the anklet as the finishing touch. Finally, he leans back to inspect his work and- oh. _Oh_. So shiny and pretty, even with a frown marring her face.

He turns his head to see her from different angles, humming to himself. The necklaces fall against her neck and clavicles in rivulets, the longer ones nestling between the swell of her breasts like they belong there, her arms covered in bracelets and golden chains that shift with every movement. With every breath she takes, the jewels shift and glint in the light just so. Finally, his eyes are drawn to the only expanse of skin that isn't decorated by ornaments. Her dress must have hitched up when he dragged her closer, revealing more of her legs, and he feels the sudden urge to cover those in trinkets as well.

Looking at her like that, he thinks he could keep her, too, as part of his treasure. But alas, he keeps pretty things, but not ones that will wither and decay with time. It just isn't worth it, or else he would keep flowers as well. They _are_ pretty, after all. But fleeting, just like she is. He has no interest in something that will be dust by the next time he blinks.

Hmmm, but Solomon is old, isn't he? Almost as old as they are, and he hasn't fallen prey to the sands of time. Just like a precious metal compared to mere iron, he hasn't corroded nor rusted away. There must be a reason for that. Perhaps his magic? No, witches have magic as well, and they fade nonetheless. There must be a way.

Well, if he ever finds it, he thinks, he'll make her part of his treasure. It would be nice to have her around, covered head to toe in the best finery money can afford, in _his_ things. It isn't like having her around would be a pain, either, she doesn't turn up her nose at him like the rest of people, and she is friendly enough, despite her rudeness. He could live with that. And besides, the only reason why she isn't falling over herself to worship the floor he walks on is, obviously, because she doesn't know him enough yet. Really, she should have already realized that he is the greatest being she will ever lay her eyes on, but despite what his brothers may think, he can wait. He is patient.

Then again, that is only _if_ he finds a way to keep her. And, he thinks, annoyed, _if_ she gives herself to him. Which might just be the hardest part, because she is draped with some of the most expensive jewels in the Devildom and she feels absolutely no greed. She just- doesn't want it. She can't be his if she won't lose herself to his sin, and that's a problem.

Then again, this is only his first try, and there's a whole year ahead to whittle away at her soul until it is as corrupted by greed as he needs. Piece of cake.

He is torn away from his musings by a slap to his hand. This one, unlike the one from before, does sting. He realizes that his hand had been trailing up from her ankle to, ah, greener pastures, and retracts it, hoping that the burning he is feeling on his face isn't showing. When had that happened?

“Can I take them off now?” she whines. “They're heavy.”

She pulls down her dress to cover her legs, the chiffon sliding prettily over her skin. It's a nice fabric, he thinks, but she would look way better in silk, or lace, or something embroidered with gold. He huffs, half lost in thought. “Yeah, sure,” he says, clicks his tongue in fake disapproval, “they look horrible on you. Too pasty.”

The human rolls her eyes and starts taking off rings, he doesn't help this time. When she goes to take off the anklet, though, he finds himself frowning, and he surprises himself by saying, “Keep that one. It's ugly enough to suit ya.”

Her movements halt and she looks up at him with the same expression of sardonic disbelief that she had worn before, when he had walked up to her with two handfuls of treasure. “Sure,” she says. She rolls her eyes, but makes no movement to remove the anklet from her person. Still no greed, he notes, but at least she didn't outright reject it. He can work with that.

He feels the irritation come back at full force when she frowns at the anklet and, then, her eyes stray to the stupid piece of plastic that she had been tinkering with before. It's just some cheap thing that he got and doesn't even want. He was going to just throw it in the trash, for the Devil's sake. What is so special about it?

“Keep that thing, too, if ya want it so much,” he adds, visibly annoyed. It isn't even that she wants it, she doesn't want it or else he would feel it. Feel her need to possess it. But it just isn't there, so why is it that her eyes are so drawn to it instead of all the gems and gold that he just let her wear? He doesn't get it, but if she takes it away then she will stop paying attention to it the next time she comes to his room, and that's good enough for now.

There is a fleeting look of surprise when he says this, and she opens her mouth as if to ask something, then closes it and frowns. “Thanks,” she says, finally.

Mammon fights the blush that is threatening to spread up to his ears. He isn't used to people thanking him and, sure, she _should_ be grateful, he is _the_ Mammon, after all, and he has deemed it fit to bestow a present on her despite her being just a worthless human... but still. He wasn't expecting it, is all.

Unnerving... but nice.

* * *

The next day he starts to follow her around, and if she finds it odd that he is suddenly glued to her, she doesn't comment on it, despite throwing some confused glances his way.

“You don't need to guard me when we're inside the house, you know?” she says one day, seemingly annoyed. Mammon doesn't see why.

One of the characters in the movie screams in horror and he startless and buries his face on her hair, trying not to see whatever is about to happen. Despite her protests, she doesn't push him away, rising a hand to pet him awkwardly. He hates when she does that, hates that she feels pity for him when he so clearly _owns_ her, but her fingers through his hair feel like bliss and he is too busy trying not to shiver at the touch to actually tell her to knock it off.

Movie night has become a staple in the House of Lamentation ever since Levi convinced her to watch TSL. Mammon doesn't know exactly how those two had become so close, because Levi had been pretty pissed at her after her failure to procure the information he asked of her, but the fact is that, for some reason, he forgave her that same evening.

Mammon isn't as stupid as people likes to think. He suspects that it has to do with the fact that the figurine he gave her, which she had placed that same morning on her nightstand when he guided her back to her room, had disappeared from its spot the next day. He wanted to be angry. It isn't often that he gives things to people, but it really had been just a cheap piece of plastic, and she hadn't taken the anklet off since he put it on her, so it was fine. She wasn't wearing anything anyone else had gifted her, just _his_ anklet.

Is it correct to call this movie night thing a staple if there had only been three so far, though? The first night they watched half the seasons of TSL, accompanied by Beel, who could smell a popcorn in the House of Lamentation like a shark detected a drop of blood in the water. Then, the second, Levi had joined them because 'they weren't enjoying it well enough' and proceeded to constantly comment on every detail and behind-the-scenes fact that he could think of. Mammon himself was annoyed and told him to shut up and just let them watch it, but the third born had just huffed and said that it was the human's call, since they were in her room, which... okay, fair enough. She had just shrugged and told him that, as long as he wasn't speaking over the characters themselves, it was fine, and that was that.

Mammon would have preferred that she take his side but... it made sense, and a quick glance at the way the anklet glinted in the dark room made him feel better. He wasn't the Avatar of Envy, that was Levi's thing, and as long as it was clear that she belonged to Mammon, she could do whatever she wanted.

Tonight, though, there were no more seasons of TSL to watch, and thanks to that stupid messenger conversation, she was curious to see what their horror movies were like, so here they are. Watching _Dancing with Priests_. In the dark.

His only consolation is that, instead of laughing at him for being scared, Levi seems absolutely livid at the way Mammon is draped over the human. _His_ human. 'Mine,' Mammon mouths at him when he is sure she isn't paying attention, and Levi's face goes red with anger. It probably isn't a good idea to make the Avatar of Envy jealeous, but no one has ever said that Mammon is smart.

“I'm not guarding ya,” he finally answers, because he figures that she might get angry at him if he ignores her previous comment. “'Sides, you get lost going everywhere, so stop complainin'. Knowing ya, ya might get lost in the house.”

The fact that neither Beel or Levi contradict him says a lot about her ability to get completely and utterly lost even going to the next room over. She deliberately ignores this. “I mean, yeah, but I can get from class to class just fine. You don't need to always be waiting outside to take me to the next one.”

Things would be easier if Lucifer just agreed to put her in his class so that she wouldn't leave his sight. The eldest, however, insisted that she should share classes with the rest of the brothers as well, so she can better integrate herself like she is supposed to do. Mammon has yet to find an argument against that logic, and it annoys him to no end, something Levi is perfectly aware of. He and Satan are the ones who share more classes with her at RAD, on account of her having picked most of the same electives as them.

As if knowing what he is thinking, Levi smirks at him. Mammon glares and drags the human to her lap in retaliation. If she ever had a personal bubble, it bursted at some point in the past, so the only acknowledgement she gives to this is a little bit of squirming until she finds a comfortable spot. Levi, on the other hand...

* * *

“I _cannot_ believe you are so irresponsible.”

The four of them are standing in a row in front of Lucifer's desk. Beelzebub looking disinterested as he finishes eating the bucket of popcorn that he had managed to 'save' in the altercation. He would have grabbed two, probably, except he'd had the human under his other arm at the time, and that probably made it difficult.

It had all happened so fast... Levi had transformed and lunged at Mammon with a scream of rage. To his other side, he had felt Beel shift, pluck the human from his arms – he had almost snarled at his younger brother for it – and vacate the premises. Then Levi had finally reached him and Mammon had transformed as well and- _well_. By the time Lucifer arrived the fight had spilled over to the kitchen, much to Beel's consternation, and her room was practically dilapidated.

Speaking of which. “Seeing as your room is unsuitable for the time being, you will have to share with Beel until it is fixed.”

Needless to say, Lucifer's decision doesn't go over well. It just doesn't make any sense, why would she have to share with Beel when she belongs to Mammon? She should stay in his room, where she belongs. “Wh- And why does she have to share with Beel? What if he eats her?”

“Yeah, that's just asking for trouble.” Oddly enough, Levi backs him up. Then he adds, “I-I mean, since I was the one at fault, uh, I should be the one to pay for it so- So she should stay in my room, right?” And, ah, that makes more sense.

Lucifer levels them with an unimpressed stare. “Beel's room has two beds,” he explains in a clipped tone.

“Ah,” says Mammon.

“Oh,” echoes Levi.

The human sighs and rubs her temples.

“I'm hungry...” Beel says, forlorn, staring at the poisoned apple on top of Lucifer's desk.

And that is when Lucifer seems to decide that enough is enough, and promptly kicks them out.

* * *

The knocking is insistent enough to make Mammon open his eyes blearily and see that it is, in fact, three in the morning. Groaning, he gets up from his bed and storms his way to his door, opening in in one swing. On the other side, he finds Beel.

“I can't find her,” he states.

It's been two days since the human had to switch rooms, and seeing Beel distressed outside of Mammon's own room, saying that he can't find her at three in the morning... it isn't something one wants to wake up to.

“Wha-?” Mammon asks, eloquently, because, again, it's three in the goddamn morning.

“I can't find her,” Beel repeats. “I woke up and she wasn't there.”

By which he probably means that he has been looking for her for the last thirty minutes and only asked for help now because he is starting to get genuinely worried. It isn't hard to make Beel worry, admittedly, but making him worry to the point that he actually _asks for help_? Well, that's a different issue. It's enough to make Mammon wake up fully.

“Ya looked everywhere?” Mammon hesitates. “Even in the other's rooms?”

He doesn't want to think about why she would be there, but he has to accept that it's a possibility, as much as he hates it. Beel blushes a bit, avoiding his eyes. “I peeked in, just to make sure, she isn't there either.”

Well, that's a relief, but still. “And ya can't think of anything that'd make her leave like that?”

Beel's eyes go a bit wider and then he stills, his lips a thin line.

“ _Beel_ ,” Mammon says, because if there's something that could explain her sudden disappearing act he wants to hear it, and because he is his big brother and can sound admonishing if he wishes so.

“She has nightmares,” Beel relents, not looking at him. When Mammon says nothing, he adds, “ _bad_ nightmares.”

There's probably something else he isn't saying, but Mammon has no time right now to be worrying about that. As much as he wants to ask about what happened to make Beel so reluctant to tell him about something as mundane as nightmares, of all things, that isn't going to help them find the human. And besides, she probably just needed to stretch her legs if that's the case. She might be just taking a stroll around the house. Then again, knowing her, she probably won't know how to come back to Beel's room.

Mammon steps out of his room and closes the door behind him. “You probably missed her because she was walking around too,” he tries to reassure his brother as much as himself. She can't have left the house... can she?

As if summoned the moment Mammon took a step out of his room after curfew – it wouldn't surprise him if that was the case – Lucifer appears, followed by Satan. They seem to be in a hurry, which does nothing to calm Mammon's nerves. He and Beel share a look, but when Beel goes to ask for an explanation, Lucifer interrupts him.

“We have no time. Go to Levi's room, ask _her._ ”

Well, that tells Mammon absolutely nothing, aside from the fact that Lucifer is very pissed at someone that isn't him for a change. They don't bother asking what's wrong, if Satan is willingly following Lucifer around, it must be pretty serious.

The first thing they hear approaching Levi's room – and now they know that there's something very, very wrong, because the door is open – is Levi himself.

“What do you _mean_ you drank a whole cup of Devildom nightshade tea?”

Ah. That is what's wrong.

The human is _dying_.

They practically run the rest of the way, stepping into the room without waiting for permission. It isn't something they would do under normal circumstances, but Mammon feels like tonight there should be some exceptions made. The first thing they see is Levi, holding a spray bottle and seemingly debating with himself whether he should spray her with it or not. The human eyes it warily, hair wet and clinging to her face. That, coupled with the way she leans away from the bottle, tells Mammon that Levi has already made use of it.

He feels like there might be a story behind that.

Still unaware of their presence, the human shrugs, not bothering to lift her head from where it rests at one side of Levi's bathtub, “Lucifer brewed it.”

_What?_

Mammon is very close to storming his way into the kitchen just to ask Lucifer what the fuck he was thinking, but Beel beats him to it, or at least, that's what it looks like he is going to do when a growl rumbles out of his chest and he stomps his way out of the room.

Thanks to that, Levi finally realizes that they have company, but his attention is only on Mammon for a fraction of a second, because the moment Levi stops looking at her, the human leans more weight on the bathtub and closes her eyes. And that isn't good, isn't it? Wasn't Devildom nightshade particularly poisonous to humans? He can't remember it well, but Mammon can vaguely recall something about falling asleep forever, and that can't be good. Scratch that, that definitely isn't good.

Mammon's face of alarm cues Levi about what's happening, and he quickly whirls around and sprays her in the face.

Ah, so _that's_ what the bottle is for.

“Bad! Bad human!” Levi scolds, and it would be pretty funny if there wasn't a note of panic to it.

The human sputters and turns a sleepy glare on Levi, kicking him in retaliation. They are both sitting in his bathtub, face to face, each taking one extreme for themselves. Were it not for the fact that his human is in the process of dying, Mammon would have been downright pissed. As it is though, he merely drags Levi's chair to her end of the bathtub and sits in it, extending a hand to rest it against her cheek. He hisses upon contact. “She's cold as ice,” he mutters when Levi looks at him in surprise.

Levi stares at the bottle in his hand with a look of abject horror before realization seems to dawn on him and he becomes frantic. “Oooh no. I fucked up.”

Then he starts taking off his jacket without explaining anything, much to Mammon's annoyance. Way to leave him in the dark. Like he needs that right now.

His glare must have relayed his frustration, because Levi finally starts explaining. “One of the things the poison does is slowly lower the temperature of the body. It's like falling asleep in the snow.”

_Oh_. Oh, shit.

He watches as his brother helps her put his jacket on, the thing is so much bigger than her that it makes her look impossibly small. Mammon feels his eyes burn and the back of his throat hurts when he stops the keen that wants to escape from it. Luckily, the sound of Levi's D.D.D. distracts him enough to momentarily stop his building panic. He looks at the screen out of the corner of his eye and quickly picks it up from Levi's nightstand when he sees what the notification is for. It's a message from Satan to the group chat, but he can't read it because the supid screen is locked and he doesn't know the-

“It's nineteen twenty-two,” Levi says, startling him. Mammon doesn't know why his little brother has decided to entrust him with the pin to his phone, but he knows better than to question it right now, and gratefully taps the numbers.

**Satan:** it's Beel

Satan and Lucifer are brewing the antidote

how is she

Mammon breathes a deep breath of relief, showing the screen to Levi. He has moved the human to lay back on his chest, trying to rub some warmth back into her arms, but she looks even more lethargic than before, even if she is still awake and looking at the D.D.D. with a rised eyebrow. Mammon can't make himself look at her for more than a few seconds. He draws back his arm and tries typing a response to Beel, but his stupid fingers won't cooperate. They won't stop shaking and it only serves to frustrate him further. She's _dying_. She's dying right beside him, and there is nothing he can do about it because, even if they try to keep her awake, even if they try to keep her warm, without an antidote it's useless. _He's_ _useless_.

Finally, he manages to type something that doesn't look like a key smash.

**Leviathan:** cold

The lone word taunts him on the screen. He holds the D.D.D. with one hand as he digs his nails on his wrist with the other, trying to distract himself from his thoughts, trying to keep himself grounded. He can't afford to be distracted right now.

Finally, the three impassive dots give way to an answer from Beel.

**Satan:** bring her here

it's almost done

Mammon scrambles up so fast that the chair falls backwards, startling both Levi and his human. “We have to take her to the kitchen,” he explains, his voice, thankfully, doesn't waver, doesn't give him away. It sounds far, muffled, like he's underwater. If Levi is creeped out by his lack of intonation and his sudden adquisition of an interior voice, he doesn't mention it. He gets up with her still in his arms, and there's something to say about how Mammon is feeling, because he doesn't even think to protest about anyone carrying his human around. Instead he takes a step backwards to leave more room for his brother to step out of the bathtub and leads the way towards the kitchen.

It doesn't occur to him, until she is seated at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of frothy pale-green liquid, that she had been oddly calm during the whole situation.

“Drink. It,” Lucifer says, stilted, after a few seconds of her staring blankly at it.

She slowly lifts her narrowed eyes at him, eerily calm. “What if I don't want to?”

Her head is tilted and her eyes are stone. Mammon feels his veins turn to ice. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Beel start to growl, so low that she probably can't hear it, at first, then louder. Satan's hand on his wrist stops him and they share a loaded look. It is clear that there's something Mammon doesn't know yet, and he doesn't like it.

Her attention is briefly drawn towards the commotion, and she holds Beel's angry gaze for a second before lowering it back to the cup. She reaches towards it, but instead of picking it up, she traces the rim with her index finger. “You know,” she starts conversationally, “this reaction seems a tad excessive, all things considered.”

Lucifer slams his hands on the table, making the cup lurch precariously and spill a few drops on the wooden surface. “You are going to drink that, and afterwards _we are going to talk_ -”

“Or what?” Her eyes might be drooping, but that does nothing to dim the defiance in them. And then she smiles, a terrible thing like a wound opening to reveal bone white teeth. “You'll kill me?”

She chuckles at his stunned expression and the only thing that Mammon can think of is that her laugh shouldn't sound like this. It should sound warm and fond and syrupy sweet, like caramel melting on her tongue. Not like _this_.

Mammon wants to say something, wants to ask her what's wrong, ask why won't she drink the damn thing. It's right _there_. But he can't. If he opens his mouth he will break. His brothers have always teased him for being a crybaby and, as much as he denies it time and time again, they are right.

Finally, it's Satan who breaks the silence. He's smiling the same way he does whenever he's about to tear someone to pieces. It isn't reassuring. “I feel like if you're going to insist on dying in our kitchen, the least you could do is tell us why.”

The human, who had closed her eyes and let her head loll to the back of the chair, opens one eye lazily. “Hmmm? Oh, yeah, I guess.” She shrugs but sits straighter, although she does so with visible effort. If she doesn't drink the antidote soon there might not be a way to fix it. To fix her.

“Well,” she starts, “I guess that if I'm going to kick the bucket, at least I could give you a piece of my mind first. Some parting words. But where to start...” She lets the phrase trail off, making a show of thinking. After a few seconds, she smiles, like she has just remembered. “Ah, yes. Well, the thing is, you are all a bunch of assholes.”

A shocked silence starts to fall over the kitchen, but she barrels through it with renewed vigour. “You have been threateing me with various degrees of violence _and death_ , ever since I came here. And it's getting pretty old, pretty fucking fast. Also, do you know how many times have any of you called me by my name since I arrived here? Come on, take a fucking guess.” She waits for a few seconds of deafening silence, struggling to keep herself awake. Her words, when she continues talking, are even more slurred. “Exactly. And you know what? Sure. I get it, someone will kill me soon. Whatever. But you know fucking what? This,” she points towards the accusing empty teacup that sits beside the other. Mammon's chest tightens when he sees it. That must have been where the thrice damned tea was, and no one had thought of removing it while being in a hurry.

“This is my choice,” she continues. “If I'm going to die here, I will fucking do it by my hand. At least, I still have control over _that_.”

“You are going to kill yourself out of pride.” Surprisingly, it's Lucifer who speaks. He sounds like he is turning an idea in his head, considerating the possibilities.

“No, _you_ are going to kill me,” she corrects him, grinning widely. “And it's going to be hilarious. I mean, not to me, I will be dead. But I bet someone will find it funny. Diavolo probably won't, though. Tough luck, buddy.”

Mamon watches his older brother go pale, not understanding what she means. Satan, on the other hand, seems to understand though, because he bursts out laughing. “You aren't doing this out of pride,” he says with something close to admiration once he has managed to stop. “You're doing it out of spite.”

“I really hate being ordered around and being reminded of how little control I have over it, it's demeaning,” she says, scrunching up her nose, and Mammon really wishes they weren't bonding over her _imminent demise_.

Their conversation is cut short, however, when Lucifer speaks again. His rage simmers underneath his skin in a way that makes Mammon's instincts scream at him to _leave right now_.

“Fine,” he says. “ _Fine_. What do you want?”

“Respect, mostly. But that was before. Now...” she lets the phrase trail off and looks to the side, disinterested. There's a moment when she blinks and her eyes stay closed for a beat longer than they should, then she startles awake and shakes her head. She looks down at her hands, flexes them slowly, frowns, then absentmindedly mutters, “huh, I can't feel them anymore. Weird.”

Lucifer purses his lips, looking at her as she inspects her unfeeling hands like her attitude towards her own death personally offends him. It might as well do. Finally, his shoulders sag down, and it takes Mammon a few seconds to realize that he looks _defeated_ , of all things. Mammon has only ever seen him like that once, and it was when-

He hasn't looked like that in a while.

Lucifer takes a fortifying breath and then says, “Make a pact with me, then.”

That makes her look up, her eyes impossibly wide, but before she has a chance to argue, he continues speaking.

“If you make a pact with me, we'll be on even grounds. And nobody will dare threaten you again.” After an awkward silence, he adds, “myself included.”

She opens her mouth, closes it. Nobody so much as breathes as she levels a considering look on their eldest brother, then, finally, she relents. “First the pact,” she says, face impassive. “Then I drink that... thing.”

Lucifer nods solemnly, then steps around the corner to hold one of her hands and kneel beside her chair, lowering his head. The vision of him like this is so striking that Mammon finds himself averting his eyes, feeling like he is witnessing something he shouldn't.

“I, Lucifer, Avatar of Pride, pledge myself to you, Ione, daughter of Iduna, daughter of Pomona. That we may be bound by an unbreakable pact, this, I swear to you on my name as well as the very blood that runs through my veins.” His words ring final, like the last strike of a hammer forging a sword, and, with a gently placed kiss on her index finger, the mark of his pact settles comfortably over her skin where his lips touched.

She stares at him dumbfounded as he stands back up, blinks. “Okay,” she says, sounding meek for the first time since Mammon has met her. Then, with a bit more of confidence, she repeats, “Okay,” and downs the antidote in one swing, still looking perplexed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -You can't be killed by demons if you kill yourself first. It's all thought out. Ione is galaxy brain y'all, she cracked the code
> 
> -I like the thought of Mammon being like a dragon that hoards valuable shit in his room like it's his lair or something. Also he's my main man and it shows uwu  
> There's going to be love for everyone but you can't stop a sunflower from turning towards the sun ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> -Also I don't know if I'll be able to write every chapter with only one of the brother's POVs like I've been doing. It remains to be seen but I kind of like the idea of each brother having a chapter (with a few in between for MC) so we'll see how it goes
> 
> -Boy, it's going to be really funny when Asmo wakes up next morning


	3. Famine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beel tries really hard not to eat the snacc, with various degrees of success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slaps Beel's pecs like a bongo* This bad boy can fit so much guilt in him! His stomach might be empty but his heart is full of love :')

She doesn't show up for meals, sometimes.

It isn't like it's mandatory, or anything. The only reason they eat together is because they got used to it when they were in the Celestial Realm, and then they just clung to the habit in some misguided attempt at normalcy. So they like to eat together.

The human doesn't necessarily need to be present at meals though, and, Beelzebub thinks, seeing a demon eat must be a bit... unappetizing. Beel had never realized how perturbing they must look to a human until she ate with them the first time. Demon table manners are, obviously, quite different from human ones and far more raucous, for lack of a better word. It isn't unusual to eat with your hands, not bothering to use the cutlery provided. It's even far more common, actually. The only ones Beelzebub has ever seen use it are Lucifer and Barbatos. He suspects that Satan would, too, if not for his constant need to distance himself from Lucifer.

The sounds of crunching bone and tearing meat are so common that he had never stopped to think about what a human would feel at the sight. Compared with the way she eats, he understands how him taking a bite out of a bone, after having devoured the meat covering it, and slurping the marrow, could be a bit unsettling.

So she doesn't show up for meals, sometimes.

They don't bother her about it. They understand that she doesn't have to force herself to stomach their eating habits, and as long as she doesn't bring up the issue they are content to leave it unspoken as well. They understand her plight; they were new to the Devildom once, too.

It says a lot about her that, when she does show up – she sits at the head of the table opposite of Lucifer, respecting Belphie's empty seat, for which Beelzebub is grateful – she doesn't grimace or show any discomfort. Beelzebub can admire her stubborness to at least share meals with them sometimes. Maybe she is trying to get used to them slowly, he thinks, which shows a lot of effort on her part.

These assumptions, he will learn later, are all mistaken.

It happens almost after a full week of her staying with them. Beelzebub wakes up from one of his nightmares, again, feeling like his stomach grew teeth and is eating him from the inside out, so he gets up and goes to the kitchen. It's hard to even walk, with how hungry he is, but he manages to get there just fine, which he decides to consider a victory.

He notices the smell almost instantly, before he even reaches the door, and his mouth starts to water; it's a wonder how he isn't leaving a trail of saliva behind himself, not that he is paying much attention to that, right now. There's something that smells delicious. It reminds him of honeyed beef, tender and just the right balance of sweet and savory. By the time he registers what's happening, he is already starting to bite down.

He comes back to his senses just in time and, thankfully, his teeth haven't managed to tear into anything yet, which is a relief. The body encaged between him and the counter is completely still and motionless. She might as well have stopped breathing. If it wasn't for the way the frantic beating of her heart fills the room, he would have thought that she had died of fright. One of her hands is fisted in the front of his shirt in a white-knuckled grip, and the other is holding onto the arm he had used to move her shirt to the side and expose her shoulder. Her nails, he notices, are sharper than he had thought, digging into the flesh of his forearm in an almost pinful way. It stings a bit, but he doubts there will be a mark left.

Speaking of which.

With a gut wrenching feeling, he studies the expanse of skin before him, letting his shoulders sag in relief when he confirms that, other than a bit of bruising, there is nothing torn or bleeding. The mark of his teeth stands out accussingly, though. He could have killed her.

“Uhm...”

Her voice startles him and he takes a step back, letting go of her and grabbing his wrist like that will prevent him from hurting her further. “Sorry,” he says, “I'm sorry.”

She doesn't move from her spot against the counter. “It's fine,” she answers, fixing her shirt.

It's not.

The top two buttons of her shirt are nowhere to be seen, her shoulder will probably be one big bruise by tomorrow, and he can tell that she is deliberately trying to keep her breath even. At least her heartbeat is slowing down.

As if noticing his reluctance to believe her, she insists. “Really, it's fine. You guys already warned me that this might happen, but hey, you managed to stop. What, not up to your standards?”

Her attempt to joke about it is weakened by the way her small smile falters at the edges. Beelzebub frowns, she shouldn't make fun of it, she could be dead right now. If he had stopped just a second later... Better to not think about it.

He can't bring himself to keep looking at her though, so he tries to avoid her eyes by inspecting the things strewn haphazardly over the table. Junk food, mostly. Bags of chips and a bowl of cereals and... is that a pickle jar...? It's an odd combination, but he has no room to judge, himself.

She follows his line of sight, her smile becoming sheepish when her eyes land on the food. “Uh, yeah, I got a bit peckish.”

Beel hums and nods in agreement, he knows the struggle. The scare from before made his stomach constrict and he momentarily forgot about it, but now that she mentions it, he is starting to feel hungry again. However... humans don't usually get up for a snack this late, right? Or, well, normal people in general. He's always hungry so it isn't unusual to see him in the kitchen, but other than the times Levi wrenches himself from his gaming and crawls out of his cave to get an energy drink, nobody else usually comes here this late. Much less to eat.

“Did you not like what was for dinner?” The food of the Devildom is different from that of the Human Realm, so he wouldn't be surprised if she was finding it difficult to enjoy it. The sheer amount of new flavours and textures must be overwhelming. Not to mention that some of the meat they eat tends to be, ah, underdone. Most of it is eaten raw.

Though now that he thinks about it, she wasn't at the table today, right? She had been there for breakfast, he was sure. She is always there for breakfast, probably because baked goods are hard to find unappetizing, no matter what they are made of, but he doesn't think he has seen her at the table ever since.

...she _had_ dinner, didn't she?

As if divining his thoughts, she shrugs. “Uh, sorry, I kind of forgot.”

“Forgot,” he echoes, as if that will help him understand what she means.

“Yeah, so,” she gestures widely towards the assortment of unhealthy food, “dinner.”

Beel frowns at the bags of chips and the half eaten bowl of cereals and levels her with a disapproving look capable of making Belphie feel guilty. She doesn't say anything further, choosing instead to sit back at the table and attempt to open the pickle jar. Attempt being the key word. She is having absolutely no luck with it, and he watches her struggle with it for a few seconds before she sets it back on the table, frustrated.

Beelzebub sighs. “You are what you eat,” he says as he picks up the jar and opens it for her. “Do you know what that means?”

She takes the proferred jar and grabs one of the pickles, bites into it with aggressive glee. “That... I'm a snack?” She points at him with the half eaten pickle, not bothering to finish chewing before speaking. Not that that matters much in the Devildom.

He... doesn't get it. He is aware, because of her expression, that that must have been some sort of human joke. But he doesn't get it. Furthermore, his stomach clenches at the reminder of what had happened before. Is that what she is trying to do? Remind him that he has no right to worry about her health when he had been the number one threat to it mere minutes ago?

He clicks his mouth shut and nods, dropping the subject. She offers him a pickle.

* * *

The next day she isn't there for breakfast or lunch, which is... worrying.

He can't help but feel that it is his fault; that she's avoiding him. After all, she has never missed breakfast before, and if Mammon is telling the truth, she hadn't even left her room the whole morning, leaving – to Purgatory Hall, apparently – a bit before lunch. Asmo had escorted her there and then left for a date, and Mammon had picked her up when she was done in the evening, so it had been a perfectly safe outing but...

Had she eaten lunch there... or had she forgotten like it happened with dinner yesterday?

Had she eaten anything the other times she had failed to show up during a meal? Or had she just brushed it off, eating a few snacks and deeming that acceptable enough?

Did she spend the day at Purgatory Hall to avoid him...? If so, he would understand, but still...

He can't help it. So many things to worry about, he doesn't even feel as hungry as usual because of it. In the end, he gives in and, when it's about time for dinner, he decides to go and pick her up on his way.

He doesn't understand how anyone could just- forget to eat, but now that he knows, he can't just ignore it. Eating is important, and not just junk food at ungodly hours of the night; healthy food is the basis of a healthy life. If he managed to make Belphie eat eel – he doesn't know why he hates it so much, it tastes great – then he can make the human eat when she is supposed to. Besides, he just has to remind her, right? It isn't like he has to go too much out of his way or anything, so there's no excuse to not do it.

Also he maybe owes it to her for almost eating her yesterday.

Reminding her, it turns out, is more difficult than it ought to be. Mostly because finding her is proving to be its own challenge. She isn't in her room, and she isn't with Mammon or Levi – something that has become a rare occurrence, lately – and he can't find her in the library either, which is the other place she is usually at. He is about to admit defeat, when he smells it yet again. Honeyed beef. His first instinct is to cover his nose, remebering what had happened last time, but if it helps him locate her...

He follows the smell to the planetarium, where he finds her surrounded by various open books and papers strewn about the floor, fanning outwards from where she is sitting cross-legged. He stares at her for a moment as she lightly chews the pencil in her hand, then crosses something off of the sheet right in front of her and scribbles something on the one slightly to its right. She has her hair up in a messy bun that seems to be about to give up on her, and her socks, visible because her fluffy slippers have been discarded to the side, are mismatched.

Belphie would have a field day teasing her.

But he isn't Belphie. He clears his throat, drawing her attention. “Dinner is almost ready,” he says by way of an explanation. She seems surprised to see him, caught off guard.

“Oh, yeah. Uuhh, be there in a minute,” she says, absent minded, and starts to gather her things. Beelzebub leans down to pick up a few of them, earning a muttered 'thanks', though she doesn't look directly at him.

Fair enough.

He accompanies to her room to drop off the books – that she won't let him carry for her, for some reason – then to the dining room. They don't really speak, which is awkward, especially considering how she looks at him sometimes out of the corner of her eye. He really wants to reassure her that he isn't going to eat her, even if she smells delicious – maybe he should keep that last part to himself – but he can't bring himself to address her, so he remains quiet. It's probably for the best.

He picks up the habit, after that. He could probably just call her or even send her a message to remind her, but what if her phone is in silence mode? Besides, now that he knows he can find her most of the time in the planetarium, the added difficulty of finding her isn't even there anymore.

The first few times she looks at him... weird. There is no other way to describe it. She just stares at him with a blank face for a second too long before seemingly dismissing it with a shrug of her shoulders and acting as if nothing is amiss. After that, though, she accepts it as a new normalcy, even waiting for him at the planetarium with everything already gathered neatly in her arms. She still never lets him help carrying the weight, but at least she talks to him, which is more than she did at first.

He learns a lot about their new guest, now that his attention seems to always drift towards her somehow. He is oddly aware of her presence, lately, and he has even found himself staring on more than one occassion, which is a weird thing that he is absolutely not going to question because- what if it is because of what happened that night? He might know, logically, that she is off-limits and not-food but... his body reacts on his own sometimes, and she does smell really good. Like, _really good_.

He doesn't want to dwell on that.

So. He learns a lot about her.

The most important realization is, perhaps, how she is more similar to Belphie than he had thought.

His twin is really smart, and he isn't saying it out of some bias because he's his brother. Belphie is _really_ smart. Not in the same way as Satan, books have never been his passion, but he can read people just as well. It's like seeing a dance – an oddly aggressive one – the way his twin will peel away the layers and layers of a person, leaving them raw and vulnerable. He likes playing with them, perhaps a bit cruelly, like a cat swatting at a half-dead bird, refusing to deal the final blow for its own amusement. Belphie likes pushing people to their boiling point, and seeing what they are like once they are broken.

She reads people just as well. He realizes this observing her interactions with Mammon and Levi, finally understanding why they latched onto her so fiercely. It's subtle, the way she gives them exactly what they crave the most, how she patiently erodes the layers like gentle rain over stone.

For Mammon, it's affection. He seeks her praise and touch like a starved man yearns for crumbs. The fact that she gives them freely, without asking for anything in return, only serves to make him greedy for more. Then again, it isn't exactly a secret the way he keeps trying to tempt her in an attempt to find what she wants most, so Beelzebub supposes that he is trying to give something back, in his own way.

For Levi, it's acceptance. It's fascinating, the way he slowly opens up, a little more everytime she doesn't push him away or mocks him when he talks about his interests. She never claims to understand what he is talking about, but Beel doesn't think that that's what Levi wants, anyways.

More importantly, where Belphie is delighted to poke at sore spots to rile people up, she avoids them with careful deliberation. Which isn't to say that she doesn't enjoy riling people up. But, for all that she seems to revel in being as obnoxious as possible to irritate his brothers – Beelzebub has spent enough time around Belphie to know what 'purposefully annoying' looks like – she seems to understand when to stop.

Belphie never knew when to stop.

* * *

Maybe he should have stopped them.

Maybe.

But he thinks that keeping her away from the fight was the right call and he's sticking to it. If he had joined the brawl- who knew if she could have avoided it. The thought of her getting caught in the middle of it and being hurt is... upsetting.

On the other hand, if he had managed to stop Mammon and Levi from destroying her room and part of the kitchen, she wouldn't have to stay in his room, which is just as horrifying.

“Wh- And why does she have to share with Beel? What if he eats her?” Mammon is at the verge of snarling, just like when Beelzebub had plucked her from his arms, but Beelzebub can't argue with him on this. He's right.

What if he wakes up hungry again and this time he can't stop?

No one should smell that appetizing, it's just not fair. Just having her standing beside him right now is an exercise in control. She's too close, _too close_. And every day it gets harder and harder to keep his hunger under wraps when he already knows what she _tastes_ like. There is a new set of nightmares plaguing him at night and, though he is grateful that he can't remember the explicit details upon waking up, he knows exactly what happens in them. He doesn't like that they don't feel like nightmares, they should.

Against his better judgement, his mouth starts to water and his stomach growls. It isn't a good time for him to run out of popcorn; he desperately needs to fill his mouth and make his hunger stop. A poisonous apple mocks him from where it rests on Lucifer's desk and he knows that Lucifer loves them and would never part with it but... “I'm hungry,” he says, eyeing it.

Lucifer dismisses them. He doesn't give Beelzebub the apple, sadly.

Something pokes him in the arm, crinkles in what he recognizes is the sound of a bag of chips, which is what he finds when he looks down. Ione hands it to him without a word, watching Levi and Mammon as they start bickering a few steps away. Then, she starts walking towards her room. His brothers don't notice, but Beelzebub does, and after a moment of debating wether or not he should follow after her, he starts walking. She has to sleep in his room, after all – Lucifer's orders, as much as Beelzebub dreads it – and with her ability to get lost walking a straight line, he doubts she will find it without his help.

She walks through the rubble to find her surprisingly intact closet, grabbing a set of pijamas and a few toiletries. Then, she upends the satchel where she usually carries her books over what is left of her table – Satan would kill her if he saw her treating the textbooks like that, considering that he went into a rage that one time that he found a dog eared page in one of the books in the library. She picks one small, leather-bound notebook from the pile, as well as a thick book that doesn't seem to be part of the syllabus, and shoves the pijamas and everything else inside the empty bag.

She leaves as soon as she has everything she needs, Beelzebub following behind her until she stops walking, frowns as she looks around, and turns towards him. “Uh... where is your room?”

He resists the urge to chuckle, he can't believe she walked as far as the stairs to the attic before realizing that she didn't know where she was headed. “This way,” he says, and turns to walk in the opposite direction.

They make their way there in silence, though it isn't the same awkward silence they had shared at first. The quiet is only broken by the sound of chewing, and even that is over as soon as the bag of chips is empty. He mourns its loss for a second, but his hunger is under control again, and he does have extra snacks in his room, so it should be fine. It will be fine.

* * *

It isn't fine.

“Um, so... which one...?”

Ione shuffles awkwardly in the middle of the room, her eyes shifting from one bed to the other. Beel closes the door behind him quietly, trying to be as unthreatening as possible. The last thing he needs is to remind her about the incident. Then neither of them will be able to sleep tonight, and at least one of them should. He can tell by the line of her shoulders that she isn't entirely comfortable with the idea of staying here to begin with. He moves to stand beside her instead of behind, and she relaxes a bit.

“Use the left one,” he says, “I'll take the couch.”

“What's wrong with the other bed?” she asks, frowning in confusion, finally looking at him.

Beelzebub shrugs. “It's Belphie's bed.”

She doesn't ask him to elaborate. She hasn't asked about Belphegor outright even though there is clearly something going on with him that they are not telling her. She knows that they are seven, and that right now there's only six of them, but she seems to have caught on to the unspoken taboo and respects that they don't want to talk about it. So, just like she won't sit on his seat at the table, she won't ask why they can't use Belphie's bed.

Beelzebub appreciates that.

She drops the satchel with her things on the bed and rummages through it, pulling out her pijamas and making a beeline for the bathroom, presumably to get changed. Meanwhile, he takes some blankets and an extra pillow from the stash Belphie keeps in his closet, and starts preparing the couch for sleeping. Not that he has to do much, just throw the blanket on it and set the pillow down but, well, he's trying to distract himself from the thought of having to spend the night in the same room as her. Alone.

It doesn't bode well.

Especially because he is getting nervous, and that always makes him _more_ hungry, which he doesn't need right now. He needs to distract himself with something, anything. So he does what he knows best; he grabs a sandwich from one of his drawers and starts eating. That is, ultimately, how he ends up choking as she exits the bathroom.

Her sleepwear cannot be called sexy in any way, not really, it's just that he has never seen so much of her skin, and that definitely isn't helping. Then again, it's just a big tee with shorts that aren't even _that_ short, so he can't exactly tell her to wear longer pants, _please_.

“You okay?” she asks, peering down at him.

“Yeah, fine,” he manages to say when he stops coughing. “Just swallowed the wrong way.”

That is an understatement.

“Look- Are you sure you don't want the bed? I can take the couch just fine, really.”

He shakes his head vehemently; he might be thinking about eating her about seventy percent of the time, but he isn't _rude_. “It's fine, it will only be for a few days, anyways.”

She shrugs again, something she does often. He thinks there might even be some nuance to her various shrugsand, not for the first time, he wishes Belphie was here. He would be able to tell. Beelzebub is pretty observant, himself, but he has always had a hard time matching what he sees with an explanation for it.

Taking the gesture as an end to their conversation, he takes his turn changing in the bathroom. He could have probably done it when she was in there, but he got... distracted. When he comes out, he finds her already in bed, dwarfed by its size and the pillows that she is using to prop herself up. She is reading that thick book from before.

“Solomon lent it to me,” she says by way of an explanation when she notices him staring.

Beelzebub makes his way to the couch, grabbing an apple and a cereal bar on his way there. “Oh, is it any good?”

His attempt at a conversation is stilted, to say the least, but she gives no indication of noticing or caring about it. She lowers the book a bit, looking at him for the first time since he came out of the bathroom. “It's denser than syrup, and I hate it,” she announces. “But the contents are interesting, so.”

Beelzebub smiles, amused. He can never tell if she is being brutally honest or sarcastic, she always has the same deadpan face for both. He's positive it's the first one this time, though. “What is it about?”

She sighs, the movement making her sink further into the pillows, and rises the book again. “Magical theory.”

Her distaste is belied by the fact that she seems determined to read it nonetheless. “Don't we already have a textbook for that?” he asks, frowning. It's one of the core subjects, after all.

“We're going too slow,” she answers with a frown.

He doesn't share her opinion at all, but then, he guesses, humans have a limited time to learn the things they want – and there seem to be so many of those, she has a new book every few days – while demons... don't. It would make sense if RAD's pace was too slow for her or Solomon; after all, the demons aren't exactly in a hurry, they have all the time in the world.

They both go to sleep shortly after that, her putting her book away despite him telling her that he doesn't mind the dim light of the lamp.

* * *

He wakes up to the same old nightmare as always, disoriented.

Lilith is falling, dying. Her wings a bloody mess pierced by arrows. His sister's sobs reach him even when he loses sight of her amongst the fighting and the white clouds. They should have been storm clouds, he thinks. Dark and grey, promising to bring with them wind and lightning and cold rain. They had no business being so pristine and white when so much blood was spilled, when his sister had been lost to the war.

He wakes up when he can't take anymore the way Belphie looks at him, accusing. He hasn't forgiven him yet, and how could he? Beelzebub could have saved her.

He didn't.

Today though, is different. He slowly comes to the realization that he is on the couch, the room spinning when he opens his eyes and the view that greets him isn't the one he expected. Instead, he's on a different corner of his bedroom, and there's a lump on his bed. Did Belphie...?

No, Belphie is in the Human Realm right now, so that can't be him. But then who?

As if roused by his staring, the lump stirs and sits up, looking around with bleary eyes until they land on him. “Beel?” she asks, taking in the way his chest is still heaving with his erratic breaths. He tries to breathe through his nose to even them out and her smell assaults him.

Beelzebub closes his eyes, trying to calm himself down. It smells so good, but he can't. But she's _right there_ and-

“Beel.” Her voice is steadier now, free of the confusion from before. He probably should have answered her. “Beel, what's wrong.”

It isn't a question as much as a demand for an answer, and he finds himself growling at her when she starts to move to the edge of the bed. “Don't,” he warns. Speaking is too much of an effort right now. Honestly, if she had been a demon, she probably could have been able to tell that his growl wasn't a good sign.

Scratch that, when is a growl a good sign ever?

Ignoring all of the warning signs, she merely narrows her eyes at him and proceeds to get up, sending a new wave of delicious smell towards him. He _really_ doesn't need that, right now, just as he doesn't need her to walk closer to him. But she still does.

He wants to scold her for being so reckless and for disregarding his warnings so easily, but he is already doing everything in his power to not lunge at her and eat her whole, so that might be a bit difficult right now. Has she forgotten what happened last time? Yes, he might have been nicer ever since, but that doesn't mean that he is _good_. That he has stopped feeling the urge to tear into her like a piece of meat.

When she sits at the edge of the couch, placing a comforting hand on his arm, it's too much. It's too much and he can't- He _can't_.

Before he manages to reign himself in, Beelzebub drags her down, pinning her under him to stop her from escaping. She freezes again, like that time in the kitchen, staring at him in surprise. Her smell is so close that it's maddening. He could just- take a bite. A small one. A really small one.

Beelzebub swallows thickly and shuts his eyes tight, trying to breathe through his mouth to avoid her cloying smell. He can't do that. She isn't- she isn't meat. She jokes with him and she likes sweets and forces herself to read stupidly thick books because she likes learning. _He can't do that_.

A tentative touch to his cheek makes him open his eyes and he is met with her blank stare.

He kisses her.

It's the only way of tasting her that won't end with her dying and he _needs_ to taste her again. He is so hungry he can't stand it anymore, and if it won't hurt her, then it's the best option he can think of.

He manages to stop himself long enough to give her a pleading look. “Tell me to stop,” he asks, begs, because he can't do it unless she tells him to.

But she doesn't, she looks up at him with the same unreadable expression she had worn the first few times he picked her up from the planetarium and takes in a shaky breath, closing her eyes and leaning her head back, exposing her neck. If he was a better man, he would have stopped himself. But he isn't.

He kisses her and kisses her and kisses her. Again and again, holding her tight against him because it's the only thing he trusts himself to do. She gasps when he sucks at her neck, when he licks the dip between her clavicles. Biting lightly the juncture between her neck and shoulder earns him a breathy moan that makes him shiver and bury his face in her hair. “Is this okay?” he mutters, afraid of her answer.

“Yeah,” she says airily, then a bit steadier, “yeah.”

Beelzebub doesn't know how long he keeps tasting her, never letting his hands wander for fear of losing control. If she wants him to go further, she doesn't voice it. She seems perfectly content to run her hands through his hair, dipping them under his shirt to explore the stretch of his back and making him shiver with her touch. So he kisses and licks and bites until her movements become languid with drowsiness. Then, he gathers her in his arms and carefully sets her in his bed with one last lingering kiss, leaving to sleep on the sofa, too tired himself to feel the guilt creeping in.

It isn't the last time it happens.

The next night he wakes up from a nightmare yet again and, though he is thankful that this time he didn't wake her up... he is too restless. He ends up climbing into bed with her, curling around her over the blankets protectively, trying to dismiss the last remnants of the nightmare from his mind.

He hadn't intended to wake her. In fact, he had been extra careful to be quiet, but she wakes nonetheless and turns her head to look at him. Her stare is long and silent and, when he thinks she is just going to ignore him and go back to sleep, she turns around and kisses him. Lazily at first, until his more frantic rhythm takes over.

The third night she throws a pillow at him when he makes the attempt to go sleep in the sofa, and he doesn't bother arguing with her. She is the one to wake up to a nightmare, that time. He is roused by her restless movement long before the small scream that escapes from her lips, and he instantly drowns it in his mouth, relishing the feeling of her tense body melting at his touch. She clings to him, fisting her hands on his sleeping shirt, on his hair, as he tries to kiss the nightmare into oblivion and lick away her tears.

“What is up the spiral staircase?” she asks later, her voice barely above a whisper.

It's an odd question, but he doesn't see the harm in answering. “They lead to the attic.”

She hums and nestles against him, pressing her cheek more firmly over his chest. She had said, once, that she liked hearing his heartbeat, that it was soothing.

The fourth night none of that happens again, because when he wakes up the bed is cold and he can't find her anywhere.

* * *

As he leaves, he slams the door to the kitchen so hard that it breaks off its hinges. He doesn't care. They were already in the middle of fixing it, so what is one more broken thing?

“We can't force her to drink it, if she doesn't want to,” Satan had said, and Beelzebub had agreed with him.

Lucifer had been eloquently silent.

Beelzebub had agreed with Satan but-

Seeing her there, stubbornly set on dying... It might have weakened his resolve. Were it not for Satan's hand on his wrist, he probably would have forced her to drink it, willing or not, and he would deal with her hating him later. At least she would be alive to hate him for it.

Three tentative knocks startle him enough to realize that he had been growling, pacing the length of his room like a caged animal. He knows it isn't one of his brothers. They wouldn't come after him when he is so visibly angry. It can only be one person, and he is very tempted to lock the door instead of opening it.

He opens it anyways. He needs to see that she is alright, as mad as he is at her. As mad as he is at himself for not having noticed that there was something very wrong. She stares at him from the other side of the door, wringing her hands in worry. This is the first time he has seen her do that.

“Can I come in?” she asks.

How is he supposed to say no, when she is looking at him like that? He feels his anger deflate and leave only fatigue behind. He opens the door wider and steps to the side, not moving until she is inside, closing it behind her. He stays still, looking at the wood grain because that is better than turning around and seeing her. He doesn't know what he will do if he turns around.

“Beel?” she starts. “Hey, uhm. When I said you were all assholes- I didn't mean you, specifically.”  
  
He huffs. “I haven't been exactly nice to you.” No, he hasn't. He has attacked her and then used her to keep his hunger and the nightmares at bay. He hasn't been very nice.  
  
A rustle of cloth, like she has moved from her spot. He thinks that she might be frowning, if her annoyed tone is anything to go by. “You haven't been a dick, either.”  
  
Debatable. He finally turns to look at her, trying to convey how sorry he is with his expression. He should have known. He should have been better. “Still, I should have-”  
  
“Beel,” she interrupts, “it's fine. You're not- I mean, you didn't give a shit about me when I came here at first, but that isn't something I can hold against you, you know? I'm not entitled to people caring about me, _I know that_. So just- Stop looking at me like that. I'm- It's _fine_.”  
  
There is a lull in the conversation. He disagrees, but he isn't going to argue further. At least, not now. Finally, he gathers up the courage to ask what he has wanted to know from the beginning. “Were you really going to-?”  
  
He can't even bring himself to finish the phrase, and he hates himself for it. He shouldn't be so _weak_. Luckily, she finishes it for him. “Kill myself? Yes.” Her tone is clipped and she doesn't add anything to that. Doesn't comment on the fact that she was ready to die a few minutes ago.  
  
He lowers his gaze. “I'm sorry”  
  
“I- This isn't something that happens in two weeks, Beel.” He can't tell if the tired tone is because of the effects of the Devildom nightshade or because the events of the night have finally caught up to her. She sighs and sits on the couch, massaging her temple with one hand, the other limp in her lap. “The constant reminder of how easily I could die certainly helped, but no- I shouldn't have- I shouldn't have dropped that burden on all of you.”  
  
“So then-” He frowns, not understanding her. After a beat of silence, she lifts her gaze again to look him in the eyes.  
  
“Look, not everything I do has to be connected to you and your brothers. I've known you for two weeks.” A valid argument, but a lot of harm can be done in two weeks, he thinks. Still, he lets her continue. “There are many reasons for me doing something, and I don't always say all of them out loud. This has been brewing for a while, I guess I just- couldn't take it anymore.”  
  
“...did you plan the pact?” He sincerely doubts it, but it's still something he wants to make sure of. He can't just leave these things unsaid, they tend to fester.  
  
She looks taken aback. “What?”  
  
“Lucifer's pact, is that what you wanted?” he clarifies.  
  
“ _No_!” Her response is immediate, the upset reaction at his question an answer in on itself. She looks almost offended at the suggestion.  
  
“Okay,” he agrees, quick to show that he believes her. He moves from his spot at the door and sits beside her. Then he asks, quiet, “what made you stop?”  
  
She settles back into a more relaxed position, having tensed up when he had insinuated that she had ulterior motives for- For doing what she did. “I- it was weird.” She seems miffed. “You were all upset, and I hadn't thought- Doing it was fine because I thought it didn't matter, that _I_ didn't- But then you were all so worried, and Lucifer went as far as... _That_. How was I supposed to go through with it?”

He doesn't say anything. This conversation has drained him enough that he can't even feel the usual deep hunger that is always present in his life. He scoops her up and curls around her, still in the couch, holding her as tight as he dares. They stay like that for a while, and it's almost paceful, until he speaks.

“Promise me you won't do that again.”

She immediately tenses up, betraying her thoughts on the matter, but he doesn't let her argue. This isn't something he will let slip. “Swear it,” he says, demands.

He isn't very nice, no.

He feels her tense in preparation to argue against it, but she deflates shortly after, going limp in his arms. “Okay.” At his eloquent silence, she adds, so quiet he can barely hear it in the stiffling quiet of the room, “I swear I won't try to kill myself again.”

He will have to be satisfied with that. For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Other authors: she smelled like vanilla, new books and the way morning dew settles over dandelions
> 
> Me: SHE SMELLS LIKE BEEF
> 
> -Ione is the snack that talks back lol
> 
> -I could, probably, figure out their seats at the table based on relationship dynamics... but nah. So they just sit in order from eldest to youngest don't @ me


	4. Itsy Bitsy Spider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we finally get some insight on our main girl! Turns out... all humans... are nerds...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter that mostly covers the story after Tea-Time instead of before! We still get some Tea-Time but we're slowly but surely moving on ;)

Admittedly, she should have seen this coming. This wasn't the first time her thoughts started to spiral out of control, although it was the first time she had taken it so far.

The lack of control she had over her own actions in the Devildom, the reminder that her life wasn't even hers to live anymore without the constant shadow of Lucifer's presence. The certainty that, were it not because of the whim and fancy of Diavolo, the brothers wouldn't be bothering to keep her alive. It was all too much. Like she only mattered because of the part she was meant to play in the stupid program and nothing else. Like she wasn't even a person. She had been reduced to the bare bones of her identity. The Human, that's what she was.

It had started with the wardrobe. Obviously, she hadn't exactly been carrying a suitcase with her when she had come out of that Starbucks and instead of a street, she had found the interior of some… cathedral? Castle? The architecture was gothic but it had some differences that spoke of either a fusion with another architectural style, or maybe later additions.

The chandeliers were nice, though. Very pretty, very art nouveau.

Anyways, the thing was, she didn't have any clothes. And when she asked to pick up her things from the human world, she was informed that it would be unnecessary, as she would be provided with anything she needed. Which… didn't sound that bad, except- It turned out that someone had already chosen for her what she would be wearing, apparently. Why they hadn't considered the possibility that she could buy them when she went to get the RAD uniform, she didn't know.

The new clothes were pretty, breezy, girly. She hated them with a passion. Not that she hated feeling girly, that was fine, there was nothing wrong with it, she even liked it on some occassions. But not. All. The. Time.

It seemed petty to complain about being given a full wardrobe – with clothes that were probably more expensive than the ones she usually wore – and of course she wasn't going to say anything about it, but it still made her feel like there was a disconnection between who she was and what she looked like, and that... It didn't help. When you look at yourself in the mirror and someone else greets you? Things aren't going well.

So that was strike one.

(She wasn't counting the whole kidnapping thing because that was another whole can of worms.)

Then came the fact that apparently she wasn't allowed to go anywhere without an escort. Which, fine, she could understand. There were demons everywhere out to get her. Fine. But inside the house as well? Beelzebub and Mammon were her constant shadows, a reminder that she couldn't even do _that_ right. Couldn't walk alone around the house because what if she got lost? What if something came out of the shadows and attacked her? She was weak, and useless and apparently that meant that she wasn't permitted to have any agency. _Fine_.

Second strike.

The third strike were the death threats. Everywhere she went, there was someone willing to remind her about how helpless she was, how she would be dead without the protection of a group of people that didn't even give a shit about her to begin with. And the more she was told this, the more desensitized she became with the concept of her own death.

Don't get her wrong, she had always been, but she had never actually considered that she could just- put an early end to it herself. Just make it stop.

What did it matter, anyways? They were right; she was useless and weak and helpless and a million other things. Who would even care? She didn't. And it's not like there was anyone in the Human Realm that would miss her, she had burnt a lot of bridges in her life. _A lot_ of bridges.

So yeah, in the grand scheme of things, it didn't really matter if she died a bit earlier than she was supposed to. The only thing keeping her here was…

Well.

There was the matter of the fucking stairs.

They were carved in stone, spiraling up and up into the darkness, and, no matter where she was trying to go, she always ended up in front of the stairs. She had never had any problems with directions, and she knew the layout of the House of Lamentation well enough, so the fact that she always found her way there without meaning to was beyond weird.

It wasn't because she was subconsciously thinking about them and so her feet took her there while she was distracted, she had checked. It didn't matter if she was paying attention or not, it was like the house itself shifted to take her there, and it was downright creepy.

Then the nightmares started.

To say that they were terrifying would be an understatement. She had never felt pain quite so vivid in a dream, lucid or not. She started to constantly wake up with the lingering feeling of hands that plunged into her chest, breaking open her ribcage and squeezing her beating heart, but she never died, it always became worse and worse until she woke up, but there was never any relief. The skin of her back was torn open by claws that kept tracing bloody lines over her body, her ribs were crushed inwards and pierced into her lungs, making her choke in her own blood- but she never died. She couldn't.

Instead she woke up covered in sweat in the middle of the night with the siren song of those stairs echoing in her head.

She wanted to know what was there but, at the same time, it terrified her.

So her curiosity kept her alive. Balancing on the edge between finally letting go, maybe letting whatever was up there, calling her, put an end to it all... and cowardice.

That night had been especially bad. Her mental health had been deteriorating rapidly during the week and not being able to have even one moment to just _be_ , was taking a toll on her. Sharing a room with Beel wasn't bad, per se, but she missed having a space of her own – even if, like her clothes, it felt like it belonged to somebody else – to escape for a while when things got too overwhelming. And the 'thing' they had going was... fine. It was _fine_. Everyone needed comfort when waking up from a nightmare, and Ione was no stranger to trying to avoid overthinking by finding a distraction. Any distraction.

It was fine, she understood.

She could even appreciate that he had tried to set some boundaries by sleeping in the couch, even if that had lasted only two nights, before she convinced him to just share the stupid bed. She knew that there was nothing more to it, anyways, and she refused to have to get up everytime it happened when they could just share the bed and make things easier.

It hadn't been because she had hoped that his presence would maybe help with her nightmares somehow. Absolutely not.

That night, and the one after that, the nightmare was different.

It looked sort of like a movie scene, the camera slowly zooming in on those damned stairs. Little by little. Inch by inch. It got inexorably closer to the stairs, determined to reach its destination even when Ione started to get restless. Even when she was trying desperately to wake herself up. There was something wrong going on and she needed to- She needed to _wake up_ -

The first time it happened, she woke up to the feeling of Beel's mouth pressing against her own, his hands splayed over her back, one between her shoulder blades, the other having crawled its way up under her shirt, wonderfully warm against her lower back. She had to admit, it was an amazing distraction from the nightmare. And it... sort of made her feel better. Like she could almost believe he cared. Almost.

The second time she had woken up already standing, barefoot, in front of the stairs, one foot already on the first step.

She had been ready to break, then. Her nerves were already frazzled by everything that had been happening, even the things that had drawn her interest at first were lackluster now and could barely hold her attention. And to top it all off, Lucifer had just waltzed in on her trying not to have a panic attack, with his big swinging ego-dick, and dared to- Dared to act like she _wanted_ to be in this hellhole, like she _wanted_ to go up these fucking stairs, like she _wanted_ to be alive and impose on them in their own home.

She hadn't asked for any of those things, and he could shove his death threats where the sun didn't shine. Not like she could actually tell him, of course, he was a powerful demon and she was just a weak piece of meat that could never put him in his place in a million years-

...well, not _directly_ , at least.

She drank the stupid tea.

His face when he realized what was happening was a cathartic experience, and she could almost endure living just to treasure the memory for as long as necessary.

She had been so happy. It had felt good, to finally let them have it. To finally take back some semblance of control from them. Sure, she was a burden, but this burden was about to get them chest deep in shit and it. Felt. _Fantastic_.

Or it should have.

They had no right to act like they cared. No fucking right. This was supposed to be her catharsis, her apotheosis. She was going to be _free_. Free of the shackles of flesh that bound her, free of her name, of just- existing.

She was so tired. She just wanted to close her eyes and sleep.

But she couldn't bring herself to it.

Levi, who hated any form of physical contact, had been so worried about her cold state that he had actually pulled her flush against him and covered her in his – ridiculously – long hoodie. Mammon had been on the verge of tears and his hands had been shaking so bad that they had watched him struggle with Levi's phone for a full minute. And Beel- She had never seen him so angry.

Then Lucifer had actually subjected himself to a pact – she guesses he was _that_ desperate to not fail Diavolo – and it had been impossible to say no.

* * *

She wakes up to the feeling of someone nuzzling her nose, her cheek, kissing her forehead. Her feeling of alarm subsides though, when she opens her eyes to recognize Beel looking down at her. He is still curled up around her, although his limbs have loosened during the night and her back is now resting against the couch instead of his chest.

He doesn't say anything when she wakes up, merely looking at her, searching her face for... something. She stays quiet as well, though she does it out of confusion, a feeling that intensifies when he rises a hand and rests it against her cheek, tracing the skin with his thumb with unexpected tenderness.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” she blurts out, desperate to leave. To avoid whatever _this_ is.

He blinks at her in confusion, opening his mouth to say something that will never see the light of day, because she is a coward and she has already bolted towards the bathroom, closing the door behind her with more force than necessary. She blames the panic.

Kissing is fine. Touching her would be fine, if he wanted to. Those things don't mean anything, they're just- pleasant. And that's everything there is to it. But _that_ \- whatever was happening back there... is not. He had looked at her like- Like-

No, that is ridiculous, she's just imagining things and making a mountain out of a grain of sand. Clearly, whatever that was isn't what it looked like. She is still feeling out of her depth because of what had happened yesterday and her brain is acting up in weird ways. It didn't mean anything, and everything will be normal when she comes out of the bathroom. Yeah, he was just- making sure she hadn't kicked the bucket after all. In a weird, and oddly soft, kind of way.

Freeing her hands from the too-long sleeves, Ione scrubs her face furiously with cold water. She can't let herself start thinking things like that, that way only leads to disappointment and realizing that she had misread the situation all along and-

And her thereapist would probably tell her that she has abandonement issues but, honestly? Linda can go to hell because she absolutely does not, in any way-

Two polite knocks on the door startle her enough to drop the towel she was using to dry her face. “Are you okay?” comes Beel's muffled voice. “You've been there a while.”

She has half a mind about yelling at him for interrumpting people mid-shit, just to be contrary, to make him uncomfortable, but then she remembers what she put him through yesterday and- fair enough. She can see how leaving her alone in the bathroom for too long could make him antsy. He probably has razors to shave in here, or something. Not that she feels the need to die, anymore. She feels weirdly okay, right now. Not okay, exactly, but... better. Less heavy.

“Yeah, just- give me a minute.”

When she comes out of the bathrom, she finds Beel standing in the middle of the room, staring at his phone. He writes something and then pockets it, turning towards Ione with his mouth set in a displeased, thin line. “Lucifer says he wants to speak to you. In private.”

Ione frowns, trying to cross her arms and finding it very difficult now that she has unrolled the sleeves of Levi's jacket-thing. She uncrosses them awkwardly. “And why can't he tell _me_ that?”

Beel shifts his eyes away from her, looking uncomfortable. “He said it on the group chat, and you haven't- You haven't been paying attention to your D.D.D. since yesterday. Also... you're not supposed to be on your own, for a while, so... He asked one of us to take you to his office if you were feeling good enough to go.”

He looks at her appraisingly, searching for signs of her feeling unwell, probably. It seems like her options are either stay here and confront whatever was happening with Beel back there, or go to Lucifer's office and get yelled at by a powerful demon that most likely hates her. “I'm fine,” she says. “Let's go.”

The walk there is quiet, which isn't unusual, when she is with Beel, although this time their silence is strained. At the very least it gives her time to think.

She needs to talk with Solomon. Urgently.

She hadn't thought to mention it to him before, feeling that it was something she should probably keep to herself. The stairs were a part of the House of Lamentation, after all, and she wasn't sure the brothers would want Solomon poking his nose around here. And what would she tell them? 'Sorry but we need to investigate your stairs' wasn't exactly an explanation, and Lucifer would never approve of it. He had been hellbent on keeping her away from there for the past two weeks.

She thinks she knows what's going on, now, so she only needs to consult Solomon on a couple of things, but the problem now is that she doubts they'll let her have some one on one time with him. Oh, well. It isn't ideal, but she will just have to send him a message and hope that nobody snoops around on her phone – they can call it D.D.D. or however they want, it's a _phone_.

Not that she has a particular reason to keep it secret from anyone but... This is something that is hers. She found it, and it's hers and nobody else's. It's the only thing she has been able to keep to herself since she came here, and she doesn't want to give it up, as odd as that sounds. She wants to figure it out on her own, to prove to herself that she isn't completely useless.

Her thoughts are cut short when they arrive, Beel giving her one last look to confirm that, no, she isn't going to die suddenly just by being up and walking around. She nods at him, gives his hand a small squeeze in reassurance before she can realize what she's doing. She quickly pulls her hand away to knock at the door, though Beel doesn't seem to mind her momentary lapse. He smiles. The sun rising behind a mountain range and warming everything its light touches.

She walks inside without a backwards glance, closing the door behind her with a heavy feeling. She wants to cry, all of a sudden. Why would Beel's smile make her want to cry, of all things? And besides that, this isn't exactly the best moment for that – not that there will be one, now that she is apparently forbidden from being alone. She won't let herself cry in front of Lucifer. She can't let that happen. It would be a step backwards, now that she has finally managed to make him look at her like she is more than a pawn to move around.

She inhales deeply and walks towards his desk. The last time she had been here, she had been trying to see his reaction, trying to gauge what kind of person he was. Now, seeing him in a mirror position to the one from before, she doesn't think she's any closer to it. So she stands there, awkwardly, waiting for him to say something.

Lucifer only stares her in the eyes, his expression blank, and she has to resist the urge to burrow further into Levi's jacket. She should have left it in Beel's room, she must look ridiculous in it but... she can't bring herself to take it off. It's comfy, is all. Despite the fact that it almost drags on the floor, and that she has to constantly pull her hands out of the stupidly long sleeves.

“Lord Diavolo has officially invited us to his annual ball,” Lucifer finally speaks, startling her. “We will spend three days and three nights at the Demon Lord's castle, the third night being the night of the ball.”

Ione waits for him to continue, but he merely regards her with an impassive look, as if expecting her to say something. She doesn't know what he wants from her. Honestly, she thought he was just going to berate her for what happened yesterday, but he's acting like nothing happened. She doesn't know if she is relieved or annoyed at his lack of acknowledgement. Finally, she frowns. “And?” she prompts.

Lucifer inhales deeply, leans back in his chair to look at her, and then gets up. He walks to the front of his desk to stand in front of her, his arms crossed. “He sent an invitation for _you_ , personally, after- It arrived just an hour ago.”

He then picks an envelope from his desk, turning back to give it to her. “I informed Lord Diavolo of last night's events, included our newly formed pact,” he explains, his eyes briefly flying to the mark on her finger as Ione turns the envelope in her hands. The admission that he told Diavolo about her own attempt at her life is more surprising than the invitation itself, to be honest.

Lucifer had asked her, on more than one occassion, about how she was faring in the Devildom, but Ione had learnt soon enough that whatever she told him didn't matter. He always ended up disregarding it and deciding he would tell Diavolo that she was doing just fine. So she didn't bother anymore.

Why would Lucifer tell him now, though? Wasn't this akin to admitting he had failed, or at least that he had been close to it? And why would that make Diavolo want to invite her to this 'annual ball' personally?

Only one way to find out.

She opens the envelope. It is black, sealed with wine red wax, her name written on it with gaudy golden ink. The caligraphy is an odd mix of loops and jagged angles. Inside, the ink used is white, and it glows softly like a distant moon. The sweet scent of cinnamon wafts from the paper.

' _Dearest Ione_ ,” it starts, and then goes on to invite her to, out of all things, a tea party. A private tea party. With only her and Diavolo. Is he being passive-aggressive because he's displeased with her for putting his program in jeopardy with her actions? Why else would he invite her to a _tea party_? More importantly, could it be considered a 'party' if there are only two people in assistance?

Diavolo didn't seem like the kind of man that would be passive-aggressive. Too forward for that. But then again, she had only met him once.

Ione looks up from the letter and is met with Lucifer's intense stare. If he feels embarrassed that she caught him staring, he doesn't show it. “A tea party?” she asks, lifting an eyebrow and smiling with dark amusement. She is surprised to see that Lucifer's cheeks gain some color at her question, and he avoids her eyes.

“I... was scarce with the details,” he admits. “I can understand, however, how you could find the thought of a tea party unappealing-”

Lucifer seems so uncomfortable that she is tempted to let him continue talking, just to watch him squirm, but she has things to do, and she doesn't have all morning. “It's fine,” she interrupts. Instead of the glare she expected for it, though, she merely receives a nod of acknowledgement.

“Very well, then,” he says after a short, awkward, pause. “I trust that you will be on your best behaviour.”

“I promise not to jump off the window and into my early demise.” Ione rolls her eyes and tries to keep the annoyance out of her voice, but she isn't sure she manages to do so completely.

Lucifer grimaces, then glares at her. “Do not joke with that.”

“Hey, _I_ was the one who almost died,” she protests. “I get to joke about it if I want.”

Lucifer stares at her with narrowed eyes, exhaling through his nose when it's apparent that she isn't going to back down. “There is another matter that I would like to discuss with you.” The sudden non sequitur throws her off for a second, but if he wants to change the subject, far be it from her to refuse. At her silence, he continues. “As you might have noticed, the reconstruction of the kitchen is finally finished. Your room, however, was destroyed to the point that it will have to be built from the beginning. As such, I had thought to give you the opportunity to decide on its general layout and decoration.”

Ione remains silent. Lucifer rises an elegant eyebrow. “Do you not like the idea?”

His question finally shakes her from the daze of confusion. “Ah, no, it's not that. It's just- I'm just going to be here for a year,” she points out.

“Yes,” Lucifer agrees, and then proceeds to stare at her like that doesn't matter in the least and she is just rising stupid objections to be contrary.

She opens her mouth, then closes it. If he wants to let her decorate an entire room despite knowing that her stay will only be temporary, that's his problem. She doesn't even know why she even bothered pointing out the obvious in the first place. “Sure, that sounds nice.”

“Make sure to send me a message with the specifications throughout the day. I want the renovations to start tomorrow without further delays.”

And with that, she is dismissed from his office, though every bit of confusion she is feeling dissipates upon finding herself face to face with Satan.

“Good morning,” he greets, smiling down at her.

His smile sends a shiver down her spine, remembering the way he had looked at her yesterday, like he was ready to snap. “Morning.” A quick scan of the hall reveals that Beel is nowhere to be found. She doesn't know why she expected him to be still here, anyways, he must have better things to do.

Satan's voice startles her out of her musings. “Have you experienced any dizziness spells? Any vertigo when walking? Beel hasn't reported anything like that, but I wanted to make sure.” His tone would have been clinical, if not for the small hint of amusement in it.

“No, nothing like that,” she answers, narrowing her eyes. She can't tell what is so funny, he hadn't looked like that when she had first seen him, so it must have been something she did just now. But what? She's just standing here doing nothing. Weird. “So,” she starts, trying to ignore it. “I take it you're my babysitter for the morning?”

“Perceptive, I see.” There is a hint of approval in his eyes when he nods his head to the side in the universal gesture of 'follow me?' and starts walking. “I had thought we could spend it on the library. Though I've been informed that you like to do your reading in the planetarium.”

It's an overture for conversation, she thinks, but she doesn't have much to say about it anyways. It's pretty straightforward. “It's peaceful, and I like the star charts. The library is fine, though.”

He gives a noncommital hum, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't push further for conversation and, when they arrive at the library, he merely picks the book from his usual seat and continues where he left it. He must have been here, reading, before he was summoned to Lucifer's office to begin his 'babysitter shift'.

She is surprised to find that someone left her satchel with some of her textbooks, as well as the ones Solomon lent her, already leaning against one of the armchairs near the fireplace. The one directly in front of Satan's, to be precise. Did Satan bring them here? Did Beel?

Shrugging, she makes her way to the armchair and plops down on it, her legs dangling to the side. She has to fish inside Levi's, in her opinion, massive pocket to finally reach her phone. She also finds a figurine of a cutesy turtle and a couple of candies that she puts back inside after a quick inspection. Her list of contacts is short, making it easier to find who she is looking for.

**Me:**

u there?

i need to ask u something

about compulsions

**Solobro:**

Oddly specific

But go on

**Me:**

i've found books abt how to cast them

but nothing on how to break them???

do u know any?

**Solobro:**

?

Did Asmo try to use his powers on you again?

Do you want me to tell him off?

**Me:**

no no

it's not that

i haven't seen him in a while, actually

lol do u think he's still avoiding me?

**Solobro:**

He can be very proud, so I'd say yes

He will get over it soon

But what do you need the book for?

**Me:**

curiosity, mostly

it bugs me to know how to cast one

but not how to break it

:/

**Solobro:**

Alright, then, keep your secrets

(:

I think I have a book that could help you

Will you be coming to visit again soon?

**Me:**

idk when i'll be able to :')

**Solobro:**

I'll have Asmo deliver it today

He can't avoid you forever

**Me:**

lol so mean

thanks tho

**Solobro:**

>:)c

Ione snorts. Despite how shady he is, it's still nice to have another human around. He has been very helpful so far, answering everything she could think to ask. She should probably ask him to explain the dynamics of a pact in more depth, now that she has one of her own, but somehow she feels like she should keep it a secret. It doesn't seem something Lucifer would be proud of, at least, and despite her wish to be a thorn in his side as much as possible, she doesn't want to cause any serious trouble. She will just wait and see. If he tells someone other than Diavolo, that means he's alright with it. And if his brothers go around telling people... Well, that's their problem, not hers.

Beel drops by a few minutes later, holding a tray with a pair of sandwiches and a glass of what appears to be cranberry juice but smells like oranges, for some reason. On his other hand, there is a much fuller tray.

“We missed breakfast,” he explains when she rises her eyebrows at him.

Ah, it's true, they slept until late. She decides to ignore the part of her that has realized that _Beel missed breakfast for her_ , and thanks him before taking a big bite out of one of the proferred sandwiches. Beel, meanwhile, decides that chairs are overrated and sits down in front of her armchair, using it to lean back while he gorges himself on the contents of the second tray. His table manners are appalling. At least, to her. And she loves it.

Not the fact that _his manners_ , in particular, shine for their absence. But just- that eating with your hands seems to be so normalized here. It has to be the only thing she likes about the Devildom; the freedom to be able to stick your hand in the plate and grab whatever you want. The only reason she hasn't started eating like a heathen as well is because she knows that she would make a mess out of her clothes. She doesn't know how the brothers end up with theirs as pristine as when the meal started, eating like they do, but she thinks it's absolutely unfair.

* * *

Ione curls up in bed that night with the book Solomon sent her, reclining on a couple of pillows. Asmo had acted _weird_. His attempts at flirting and trying to act with normalcy, after avoiding her for a full week, fell flat. She doesn't know if he's still mad at her for what she said or not. She would have apologized, but he left too quickly, and she wasn't going to follow him around if he still didn't want to talk. She recognizes that maybe she had overreacted and that her comment might have been a bit too mean, but she can't do anything about it until he lets her, and he has to admit his own part in it.

Still, for now she has other things to do.

Beel is laying down on his stomach next to her, his face smushed against the pillow, one of his arms slung over her lap. She can't imagine how that would be a comfortable position for him, but somehow he doesn't show any sign of discomfort.

He has been hovering around her the whole day, so much so that in the end Lucifer had designated him to keep an eye on her that evening, even though it was supposedly Levi's turn. She doesn't know the criteria used to assign the turns, but she does know that, his turn or not, Levi hasn't left his room since yesterday, so she doesn't think he would have been able to fullfill his 'duty' anyways. He's probably hardcore gaming and hasn't even looked at his phone once.

As if noticing her stare, Beel opens one of his eyes. “It's late,” he says, his arm dragging her a bit closer, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips. “You should go to sleep.”

Ione refrains from pointing out that she isn't supposed to come back to RAD for another three days of rest – more like house ar _rest_ – and that tomorrow he is staying with her in the morning as well, so they could sleep in if they wanted. “Yeah,” she says, closing the book. She already knows what she needs, and there is no point on re-reading it again and again. It's not like she needs to memorise the paragraph to do what she wants.

Turning around to set the book on the bedside table is made more complicated by the fact that Beel's arm is still stubbornly attached to her, but she manages, turning off the light and laying back down. After a bit of shuffling, Beel pulls her against his chest, drawing his knees up until she is effectively trapped. She sighs. He has been like this all day; clingy, overly affectionate. She can barely stand it. It's weird and, worst of all, makes her want to cry every. Single. Time. She is very good at holding it in, so she hasn't cried so far, but if this continues it's only a matter of time before it's too much.

Annoying, is what it is.

She only hopes that she will be able to get out of his hold later without waking him.

* * *

His arm won't budge. It's like having a python around her waist.

Ione goes limp with a defeated sigh. She won't be getting out of bed by force, that's for sure. Behind her, Beel mumbles something in his sleep and presses her even closer to him, burying his face in the crook of her neck. She shivers at the feeling of his hot breath through the thin fabric of her pijamas, unconsciously lifting a hand to run her fingers through his hair. She blames Mammon. By now it's probably a Pavlovian response, and it's his fault.

Beel, unaware of her plight, lets out a contented sigh as he nuzzles her. She decides to try a different approach.

“Beel,” she says, softly, her head turned so she can whisper in his ear. “I have to get up for a moment.”

He hums, a deep rumble in his chest that resembles the purring of a cat. It isn't the first time he has done it, but the feeling of it vibrating in her bones always feels new. She tries to tug gently at his hand to free herself, kissing his temple, then the corner of his lips when he lifts his head enough to reach them.

For a moment, she fears she has woken him up, but it doesn't really matter all that much, she isn't exactly in a hurry to do it tonight, anyways. She can always say that she was trying to go to the bathroom and try another day. Luckily, though, it seems like he is still asleep.

“Please let me go?” she whispers again, almost cooing. He mumbles something incomprehensible – she thinks she can make out the words 'no' and 'custard', she isn't sure – but this time relents, his arm falling slack. She carefully lifts it, slowly edging her way towards her coveted freedom. There is a brief moment of panic as she is leaving, when he frowns in his sleep and shifts, but he relaxes yet again with a long exhale, and she quickly grabs Levi's jacket and shuts the door behind her. It's a bit chilly at night, after all. It's not like it makes her feel a bit safer. That's absurd.

The walk to the spiral staircase barely takes any effort, as she is free to turn her thoughts to the task at hand while the compulsion guides her steps. Finally, as she stops in front of the first step, she closes her eyes.

There is a feeling like a spider's web coating the steps, weaving the spell thread by delicate thread. As little as she knows about casting compulsions, she can appreciate the skill of whoever laid it out, almost like they were leaving breadcrumbs for her to find. She hadn't known why it didn't affect the brothers until now, seeing the foreign spell layered underneath the compulsion's web. A ward, perhaps? She had noticed that their eyes seemed to never stay in the stairs too long, but she hadn't thought much of it. A puzzle to solve later.

Trying not to touch it will make her task harder, but she doesn't want to take any unnecessary risks. She doesn't want to alert the one that laid it down. It was probably Lucifer, after all, and she doesn't think he would react well to finding her here again so soon, pact or no pact.

With great concentration, she starts to unwind the web, thread by thread. Slowly but surely. She doesn't know how long it takes for her to finally reach the final string, she has no doubt that Solomon could have probably done it with a snap of his fingers, but she is satisfied with having almost reached her goal with no setbacks. It is the strongest of them all, thick in her mind's eye, glowing with an eerie, inviting light. She starts tugging at it, prying it from its base. It goes up and up the stairs, disappearing into the darkness, no doubt into the heart of whatever it is that Lucifer is hiding.

Suddenly, there is a pull from the other side. The invisible cord tenses, strengthens its hold, going taut. She pulls harder, but she cannot make it budge. Frustrated, she spitefully starts to snip the smaller threads at her end, hoping to weaken it. A feeling like a small electric shock makes her magic recoil as if burned, and she resists the urge to hiss, doubling her efforts to pull at the thread. If she can't do it the patient way, she will break it by force. The pulling from the other end doesn't relent, doesn't budge- until it does.

The string snaps, the force of the backlash making her stumble and fall on her ass. Ione swears she heard a pleased chuckle drift down from the top of the stairs. Whoever or whatever is up there, they are, without a single doubt, an asshole.

The compulsion finally broken,she throws a last glare in the direction of the attic, and goes back to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The brothers: *are nice*  
> Ione, softly: w h at t he fuc k
> 
> -I'm sorry, did you think I had made her get lost so much just for shits and giggles? Ha! Think again! >:D
> 
> -I'm aware that Beel is getting way more attention than the rest of the brothers, but to me he just seems like the one who would accept his feelings the easiest. Mammon and Levi are denial-sluts, and Lucifer, Asmo and Satan don't know her that well yet, so... yeah. The slow burn tag applies to everyone but Beel lol
> 
> EDIT: it has occurred to me that I still have some free spaces on my friend list, so here's my friend code if you want it:1343769821 I go by Aster there atm and the comment is 'eat the rich' :P


	5. Agape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Listen I just wanted to write Asmodeus being soft, can you blame me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter should be rated E just because Asmo and his mind exist within it. It was so hard for me to write him? I don't even know if I made him OOC or not. But whatever, operation 'confuse the boys with real affection' starts on 3, 2, 1...
> 
> Oh, also heads up, there's a sketch of Ione in this, but I'll still try to not describe her too much so if you want to continue picturing her however you want, who's gonna stop you? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> Also also, I have yet to proof read this so we're going in raw babey (hope there aren't too many typos)

“Maybe if you were actually any of these things you seem to be so proud of, you wouldn't need to fucking use your 'charm' on people.”

These words had felt like a splash of cold water. Everything had been going so well- until it didn't. His charm had worked at first, her eyes dazed as he had backed her against a bookcase.

He would have liked to do this in a place that wasn't the library, preferably, but that's where he'd had to accompany her – to spend the day with Solomon, no less, he was so jealeous! – and back at the House of Lamentation there was no way they could get some privacy. He had to take the opportunity when he could. After all, his pride was still hurt from being unable to tempt her when they went shopping together, and there was no way he would let that stand.

Then, just as he had been about to kiss her, their breaths already mingling together, she had pushed him away. For a human, she had been strong enough to actually make him stumble backwards. He isn't going to lie, he had been absolutely turned on by the look she shot him, like he was some disgusting bug that had dared to crawl too close to her shoe. _So hot_.

He still doesn't know why, using his charm on her wasn't such a big deal, and he had told her so, but instead of calming down she had snarled at him – actually snarled – and had said... some hurtful things. Needless to say, he had been absolutely livid, and he might have lost control over his demon form a bit. If it wasn't because Solomon reached them in time to command him back, she would probably have regretted her words. He couldn't believe Solomon had sided with her after she was so mean!

Luckily, he had better things to do today than to spend them with two humans that couldn't appreciate him, so he had left them in favour of his date. And if he'd had to retouch his make up because his eyes had gotten a bit watery it was because the air during the flight there had dried them up too much.

He had ignored her from then on and, when it became clear that she wouldn't apologize even with the silent treatment – which was just stupid because it worked with everyone. Get with the program – he had decided to avoid her. If she couldn't appreciate his good looks, then she wasn't allowed to see him at all.

Until now.

“This has to be kept within the members of the student council, understand? We cannot let this information reach the public, or else Diavolo's program will suffer for it. It's already on a precarious balance, as it is, we don't need it to get the wrong kind of attention.”

Lucifer speaks detachedly, but he is clearly shook by what happened yesterday. Asmodeus himself is having a hard time wrapping his head around it. Why would anyone do such a thing?

A part of him is glad that he wasn't here yesterday, having spent the night secretly away with someone else, but that means that he can barely believe it. She had been so feisty, so strong-willed. She certainly wasn't weak, having broken his charm once before, it wasn't something many people could do. So _why_?

He is so out of it during his visit to Solomon that evening that he doesn't even register the fact that he is texting someone else – the nerve! – until he turns to Asmodeus and orders him to bring some stupid book to Ione.

He refuses. First of all, because he isn't a messenger pigeon. And second of all, because... no. Just no. He doesn't know how to even speak to her after what happened. He doesn't know how to look at her after having been avoiding her for a week. How is he even supposed to flirt with her now?

But he can't exactly refuse an order, so there he goes, and she seems... fine. Eerily fine. Like nothing had happened.

He isn't the only one worried about it, though, Beel expresses his concerns about that in their group chat. Mammon and Levi are oddly silent, and Asmodeus curses himself for not having been up to date with the current dynamics of the house. Satan, however, explains that it might take some time for her to truly process this information, though his reassurance that she is most likely only having a delayed response only serves to make her sound like a ticking bomb.

It isn't until the next evening that he finally decides to do something about the whole situation. He doesn't know why he is doing it – after all, she was _so_ mean to him – but he already made the reservation and it wasn't exactly cheap, so he is going to go through with it. The fact that they are going to be wearing swimsuits is also very appealing. She has a great butt, sue him.

So, after arriving at the House of Lamentation, tired from the morning classes, he takes some time to relax and makes his way to Beel's room, where he knows she is staying. He can't, however, help himself when he hears the muffled voices through the door. _Oooh_ , what could they be talking about? Maybe something naughty? Sha _has_ been sleeping here with Beel, alone, for a while now. And Beel has a very nice body, in his opinion. Maybe not as hot as Asmodeus, but still, very nice.

“...earing that, when we went to sleep yesterday.” Even though Asmodeus can't see him, he can still picture Beel's face; the frown he wears whenever he is thinking.

There's a rustle of fabric. “I got a bit cold, so...” Ione's voice trails off, sounding, of all things, embarrassed. Just _what_ is she wearing? Something that covers her more than what she wore yesterday to sleep, if she says she got cold.

“Oh...” Why is it that Beel sounds so disappointed, though? What was she wearing before? ...was she wearing _anything_ before?

There's a small pause, then, “does it bother you?” The question is uncertain, like she is unsure of what he is finding wrong with her change in attire, though there is some nervousness underneath.

“You should have told me, I would have gotten another blanket.” Well, well, well. He isn't denying anything, is he? Asmodeus has known Beel long enough to know when something is bothering him, even if he only finds it mildly annoying, and he has to admit that his little brother does sound put off.

Oh, to hell with listening in, he can barely stand the curiosity!

Asmodeus opens the door abruptly, knocking once but not waiting for a response. He doesn't want to give them time to hide anything interesting, now does he?

Beelzebub turns towards him, sitting cross-legged on his bed, where the human is still lying down on her side amongst an impressive amount of pillows. She is facing Beel, the bed wide enough for her to be comfortable lying horizontally with her legs flexed. A look towards the other side of the room reveals that Belphie's bed is untouched – _oh my_ – and that, though the sofa looks like someone has been sitting on it recently, there aren't any blankets or pillows on it. Which means, probably, that they have been sharing a bed.

Oh my, indeed.

More importantly, the mysterious article of clothing that seems to be upsetting Beel is none other than Levi's jacket... and the plot thickens! Oh, now he is regretting avoiding her _so much_. Just what has she been up to? And without him! Naughty, naughty girl.

No wonder Beel sounded so disheartened, Asmodeus himself wouldn't be happy if he woke up to her smelling like one of his brothers. What an immediate turn-off! And where did she even get Levi's jacket? So intriguing! He couldn't wait to find all of her secrets today, they had so much to catch up on.

“Hi,” he intones. “Ready for our date, darling?”

The human blinks slowly, frowning, then looks at Beel as if asking for an explanation. Not that Beel is looking at her, he is looking at Asmodeus with pursed lips, and isn't _that_ interesting?

“What date,” she questions, her tone deadpan. Now that he is paying more attention, she looks terrible. She really does need some Asmodeus Time.

“Luckily for you, it's my turn to have you all to myself today, so we're going to have a spa day!”

His announcement is met with her rised eyebrow. “It's two in the afternoon.”

Asmodeus pouts. “A spa evening, then! Come on, darling, get up or we'll be late.”

The human sighs, stretches like a lazy cat, and finally sits up rubbing her eye with what Asmodeus deduces is the palm of her hand. It's hard to make it out when her hands have been swallowed by Levi's jacket. She would look even cuter with any of Asmodeus' own clothes of course, but she does, admittedly, look pretty cute in that. She looks so tiny!

And, Asmodeus thinks, looking out of the corner of his eye at his brother, he isn't the only one who thinks that. Beel is staring at the human with a soft blush on his face, his eyes fixated on her form. So, because Asmodeus is such a good big brother, he takes the opportunity to snap a picture of her. He'll send it to Beel tomorrow during Sanskrit class. Knowing him, he will look at his D.D.D. right away and immediately turn red with embarrassment. Oooh, or maybe he could send it to the group chat! Now _that_ will be fun.

Then, the thought occurs to him, “Why are you still in bed? Oooh, did Beel keep you up all night?”

She doesn't react at all, though the way she keeps her face carefully blank is very suspicious, if you ask him. “Uh, no? I was just tired, and my alarm didn't work, for some reason.”

“Sorry,” Beel apologizes, he looks so much like a kicked puppy that Asmodeus wants to squeal and squish his cheeks together. His baby brother is so cute! “I turned it off to let you sleep in a little. I was going to wake you but...”

He lets the phrase trail off, but Asmodeus can guess how it finishes. He probably thought that resting would do her some good, and wanted to wait until she woke up naturally, like he usually does for Belphie. Their little brother has a tendency to sleep a lot when he gets stressed by anything, but when he wakes up he always seems to be feeling better. Asmodeus isn't sure if a human would work the same way the Avatar of Sloth does, but if she woke up recently enough that she is still in bed now, she must have been pretty tired.

The spa day was definitely a good idea.

* * *

“Remind me what this is again?”

Ione lets her head rest in the cushion, exposing her neck and making her breasts move slightly up with the change in posture. Asmodeus wonders if, at that height, she can feel the iridescent liquid lapping at her nipples.

Resisting the urge to get into the bath with her is getting very hard, if only she'd fall into temptation already...

When they were about to get in the bath, Asmodeus had caught her stealing glances at him when she thought he wasn't looking. Which wasn't odd at all, because he is gorgeous. But the weirdest thing was that he hadn't felt any lust at all! She seemed interested enough in his body, so why was it that she didn't want him? It didn't make any sense.

To make matters worse, her bikini was very distracting. She had, apparently, bought it with some of her weekly allowance when she had realized that they had a pool in the House of Lamentation. After all this time seeing her wearing the pretty dresses and blouses that Lucifer had picked for her, it was obvious that this piece of clothing in particular had been chosen by another hand. Namely, a very cruel one. The brazilian cut of the bottom works perfectly with her ass and completely against Asmodeus' best intentions.

He had talked with Solomon about what had happened in the library, and though he didn't exactly get why, he had promised to try his best to not touch her unless she did first. It hadn't been a hard thing to promise. After all, he had only promised that he would _try_ , and getting her to touch him first might turn out to be a fun challenge. That is, until he realized, about an hour ago, that his beautiful body wasn't working on her. At all.

“Asmo?”

Oh, how long has he been lost in thought? “Hmm? I'm sorry darling, I was distracted thinking. You just have the most excellent butt-”

“Yes,” she interjects. “You told me. Several times. I was asking you what was in the bath? Aside from the flowers, I mean. I think I can recognize poppies when I see them.”

Asmodeus pouts, something that goes unnoticed by her on account of her closed eyes. So cold! “It's Adarna's blood, very expensive, but so good for the skin! We used to go to the Human Realm to get them but now they are bred in captivity in farms and it just doesn't feel the same...”

“Wait, wait, wait. Back up. You said blood. Are we bathing in blood?” Ione frowns, though she keeps her eyes closed and doesn't rise her head from the cushion.

“Yes, that is what I said, darling.” Oh, right. Humans were a bit averse to the whole blood thing, right? Should he have picked another thing? Ugh, why is this so difficult? He never makes mistakes like this. He has always instinctively known what his dates liked and what they wanted – then again, they had always wanted _him_ – so why is he suddenly fumbling like some inexperienced idiot?

She tenses for a moment, and then relaxes. “Sure, whatever. This might as well happen. What's the harm.”

Asmodeus relaxes yet again, glad that he doesn't have to deal with a distressed human, of all things. That would have been unpleasant.

The silence stretches, then, broken only by the sound of sloshing liquid whenever one of them moves. It isn't uncomfortable, but Asmodeus still finds himself growing restless. He brought her here so they could have some bonding time, and then he could figure out just what was that his brothers – and Solomon, surprisingly – saw in her that was so interesting. So far the only thing he has seen is her butt, which he doesn't regret, but he already knew what it looked like anyways; the high-waisted pants she had picked for her RAD uniform left little to one's imagination. Not that anyone would hear him complain about it.

“So... If it wasn't Beel keeping you up, who was? Did you sneak out to somebody else's room?” He gasps, feigning realization. “Is that where you got Levi's jacket?!”

In truth, he doesn't think that she spent the night with anyone, but she had acted pretty weird when he had touched the subject earlier. In response, she cracks one eye open, looking uncomfortable. “Uh, no... he gave it to me when- Um. You know.”

“Ah.” Any amusement Asmodeus had felt leaves him at the reminder.

“I was getting cold,” she explains.

“Still,” he continues, trying to bring the conversation to a less rocky territory. He still doesn't know how he feels about what happened. “Why wear it?”

“I already said why, I got cold.”

“You could have grabbed a blanket,” Asmodeus points out with a knowing smile. She is starting to turn red.

Ione purses her lips and slids a bit down on her bathtub, perhaps in an effort to hide from him, though it doesn't work very well. When her silence continues, Asmodeus rises an eyebrow. “Well?” he prompts. He isn't going to let her drop the subject that easily.

“It just-” she mutters, her cheeks turning redder still. “It makes me feel better, okay?”

Oh, she looks sooo cute right now! He wishes he could snap another picture. Honestly, he is very tempted to go there and kiss her precious, and adorably red, face. And then continue with every single mole in her body. And then-

And then nothing because he told Solomon that he wouldn't do that, or at least that he would try not to do that. Also she would probably get mad at him again for some reason.

The rest of their spa day feels like torture, considering his self-imposed rule of not touching her until she does, although the company turns out to be more pleasant than he expected.

* * *

Asmodeus tries to supress a sigh, Demon Biology is the most boring, and useless, class that they have. He already knows everything he needs about the biology of demons, so why should he pay any attention. A class on human biology, though... He thinks he could deal with that.

Uuugh, he was going to wait until Sanskrit, but he is bored _now_ , and Beel is here as well anyways. Maybe his seat isn't as close to Asmodeus as it is in Sanskrit, so the view won't be as good, but who cares? Besides, he keeps thinking about how Mammon is back at the house with her now and it's so unfair! Why hasn't he gotten any of the morning turns to watch her? Levi got tomorrow's morning but he hasn't left his room in three days!

Maybe _this_ will make him, Asmodeus thinks as he discreetely pulls out his D.D.D. and sends the picture to the group chat.

**Me:**

Look at this cutie!!!

**Satan:**

Ah, I see that you finally saw her wearing it.

**Me:**

What?!

She did it before?

When?

**Lucifer:**

Quit messaging during class or I'll confiscate your D.D.D.

**Satan:**

On Sunday.

It was my turn to watch her that morning.

I must confess...

It was very amusing to watch her disappointment when Beel wasn't there.

**Me:**

You don't think she's cute, Lucifer?

:(

Awwww, like a lost duckling

**Satan:**

That is exactly what I thought.

**Lucifer:**

Her cuteness is irrelevant.

You shouldn't be texting during your classes.

**Satan:**

So you _do_ think she is cute.

**Me:**

Who can blame him?

Looking so sleepy...

Imagine seeing that every morning

I'm so jealeous of Beel!

TºT

**Beelzebub:**

She was looking for me?

**Satan:**

She looked so crestfallen...

**Lucifer:**

I said no such thing.

**Me:**

You didn't deny it either ;3

Beel what is it like to sleep with Ione?

Is she as cuddly as she looks?

**Beelzebub:**

Oh no...

But I had to go get breakfast

:'(

**Leviathan:**

ASJDHAKDHLHFGHDFKL

IS THAT MY JACKET

WHY

???????

**Satan:**

Ah.

He's alive.

**Me:**

Levi!

Welcome back <3

What do you think?

Does she look cute or what?

I could eat her all up!

**Levi:**

BUT WHY IS SHE WEARING IT?!

**Me:**

I asked her that same thing just yesterday!

She said it made her feel better :D

She even blushilaskhlh

**Levi:**

??????

Asmo?

**Satan:**

He got him.

**Leviathan:**

?????????????

Guys???

...

...guys?

In the end, texting during Demon Biology results in Lucifer storming the classroom in the middle of the lecture and confiscating their D.D.D. for the rest of the day, but in his opinion, it was worth it. The only thing he regrets is missing Beel's reaction to seeing her picture, as busy as he was with the revelation that she had been wearing that jacket since she got it. It. Was. Adorable.

Okay, so he might be starting to understand what it is that his brothers see in her.

* * *

The next time he talks with her, it's during a D.D.D. call, and she sounds like she has been crying.

“Darling, what's wrong? What happened?”

He can feel his power rolling in waves off of him, surging at the the call of his boiling anger. Did someone hurt her? Who _dared_?

She sniffs. “Ah, no. I'm- I'm fine. Listen I just, uhm, can I ask you for a favour?”

“Oh? Asking a demon for a favour? How bold! But of course, darling, what can I do for you?” As worried as he is to hear her like that, if she doesn't want to talk about it then she doesn't want to. Not that he won't pester her later, but right now he is curious enough about this favour of hers to drop it.

“Cool. Look, I need you to buy me printed shirts. Like six of them. With flowers, animals, food... whatever you can find. Don't worry about the money, I'll pay you back. I just need them to be as obnoxious as possible.”

An odd request, but he can do it. However, “Oh no, no, you don't have to pay me back. Let's just say that you'll owe me one, yes?”

The line goes silent for a second or two, then, “Sure, alright. Thanks, Asmo.”

She hangs up quickly, almost clipping the end of his name, like she was in a hurry.

Well, then. Printed shirts.

What could she want them for? And 'obnoxious', no less.

Nevermind that, she will owe him a favour! What could he ask for...? Ah, the possibilities! Nothing too big, of course. He doesn't want her to get mad at him again, and she seems more relaxed around him now that he hasn't gotten too close. He still doesn't understand why anyone would want him to _not_ touch them, but if it works it works, even though he loathes it when Solomon is right.

Well... to say that he doesn't understand it would be a bit inaccurate. Solomon described to him once, in great detail, what it feels like to be under a demon's charm.

Asmodeus hated it.

So, he maybe gets why she is a bit guarded towards him. But it's fine, he just has to not do it again. Not that it will be too hard, since for some reason she seems to be able to fight it pretty well. Maybe if she was caught with her guard down, when she's vulnerable...

_Maybe if you were actually any of these things you seem to be so proud of, you wouldn't need to fucking use your 'charm' on people._

...Ah, but where would be the challenge in that?

* * *

He delivers the shirts the next day after dinner. The ugliest he could find, as promised.

“Oh, I _love_ them.”

The vehement way in which she says it, coupled with the grin she gives him, makes an odd feeling expand in his ribcage, making it hard to breathe. It feels like it's being blown, like a ballon about to burst. It makes him uncomfortable.

“Only the best for my Ione.”

She freezes, her face going blank as she holds a shirt up for inspection. It's the seafoam-green one, full of flamingoes and roses. Her movement comes back after a moment, like she is slowly thawing after the winter, but the pause was enough for Asmodeus to see that there's something bothering her.

“Hmm? Something wrong with the shirt?” he asks, approaching her but stopping himself at the last second. No touching. He really has to remember that, but it's so _haaard_ , and she's right there...

“No, no. It's fine.” She pauses again while folding the shirt, then, “It's just- you've never called me by my name before.”

“Ooh? Do you like it when I say your name?” He expects for her to make a joke and deflect his obvious attempt at innuendo. He wasn't prepared for her to look at him right in the eye and say 'yes'. Simply yes. No further commentary as she keeps looking at the shirts that remain spread over her new hanging chair. It's more of a hanging sofa, really. Probably big enough to fit three people at once, and sturdy enough to withstand the weight with no trouble. The cushions are in shades of lavender and blue, the frames black as night.

The way she looked at him just now keeps replaying in his mind, the balloon growing yet again. It must be filled with helium, Asmodeus thinks, because he can almost feel like he's floating.

She had never looked at him like that, had she? Just... soft. Like he is the only thing in the world that matters. Of course he is, so it shouldn't bother him that much. A lot of people has looked at him like he is the center of their universe, but then- that was while they were in bed with him, and nobody can physically look away from the Avatar of Lust when he is fucking them senseless.

She has yet to feel a sliver of lust towards him, though, so that's different.

He thinks he likes it.

* * *

Their shopping spree would put even Mammon to shame. Apparently, she has barely been spending any of her weekly allowance, and given the sum Lord Diavolo had decided on, it is quite a bit of Grimm. Solomon usually spends it in books, and ocassionally buying dinner or lunch for the both of them, but the only thing Ione bought with hers were those swimsuits she had told him about. And pijamas, because, as she had told him 'I refuse to look like Ebenezer Scrooge at night'. Asmodeus had remembered the nightgowns Lucifer had picked as sleepwear, and then he had laughed so hard that he had actually snorted. So ugly!

“Oh, your laugh is cute!”

Or maybe not _that_ ugly.

That had been a new development. And with 'that' he means the compliments. They are always unexpected, and they don't even feel like flirting. Or at least, he doesn't feel like that's her intention. She just... says things. He hasn't even felt the need to point out how handsome he is the whole day, because sometimes he will model a possible outfit for her and she will laugh and clap for him like he is a professional model and she is his biggest fan.

“I think you'd look very good in pink and gold,” she says, inspecting a dress from one of the storefronts. Asmodeus knows this store, they only sell one of each dress as a policy, and they aren't exactly cheap because of that. This dress in particular isn't something Asmodeus himself would choose, long and flowing. Delicate in a way that makes you think of romance and promises of forever. His love stories are never like that. And why would he want that, anyways? His body was made for lust and lust alone, and that is what he is good at. That is what people want.

Then again, they were going to go into the store anyways because she needs to buy a dress for the ball, so there's no harm in trying it on just to see how it looks. In any case, she seems to like it.

They choose a few different options for her, and Asmodeus picks one or two more that have caught his fancy, and then they are led by a member of the staff to a changing room. It's one of those fancy shops, where they have a private room with changing stalls so the ones who aren't trying on clothes can sit in the loveseat and drink. It isn't his frist time in one of these places, but judging by the way Ione's eyes dart from one thing to the next, it is for her.

The stalls are side by side, a space between the floor and the ceiling letting them talk as they change. Asmodeus eyes the rose and golden gown, lets his hand caress the soft fabric. It will probably even float behind him as he walks. He isn't used to that. His choice of clothes tends to cling to his body, tight, accentuating his form, but this is the opposite.

It's the first he tries on.

Ione finishes before him, announcing that she will wait for him outside, but Asmodeus can't stop looking at himself in the mirror. He feels nervous. Why does he feel nervous? It's just a dress. He's worn those before.

But it's not the style he's used to. The Avatar of Lust is supposed to be sexy, alluring, not... whatever this is. He doesn't dislike it but... does he even look like himself? The only thing that could be called sultry is a slit on the side that doesn't even open all that much, given the excess of fabric.

When he finally steps out of the stall, she is sitting on the loveseat, tapping away at her D.D.D. screen, smiling softly at something, someone. _Who_?

Something ugly twists in his chest, the baloon deflating and leaving empty space behind it- but then she looks up, and her face lights up in the brightest smile he has seen on her. And it's just for him.

“Why, _hello there_ ,” she says, setting her D.D.D. aside and making a show of sauntering towards him. “Do you come here often?”

He laughs at her horrible attempt at flirting, the ugly laugh she seems to love so much, but he stills when he feels her touch, feather light along the dress. It starts on the flowers embroidered around his shoulders made of pure gold, and makes its way down until she rests her hands lightly on his hips, where the transition from gold to pink starts. When she finally rises her eyes, she looks at him the same way she did when Asmodeus said her name for the first time. Soft, happy. He still doesn't know what it means because she _still_ doesn't want him and it's. So. Frustrating.

“Do you remember,” he says as he plays with a lock of her hair, “that favour you owe me?”

Ione tilts her head, frowns in confusion. “Yes...?”

“I think I'd like to collect it now.”

“Oh,” her hands make an aborted movement to leave his hips, but they stay in place, just as her eyes never leave his. “And what do you want?”

Asmodeus wants so many things. He wants and wants and that is the only thing that he knows how to do. But there is only so much se is willing to give him, and he knows that. “A kiss?” he says, poses it as a question to let her know that she can choose the answer.

She stares at him for what feels like an eternity, her face blank. He hates that. Hates that he doesn't know what she is thinking. Whith most people it's easier, either they want him or they are about to, but with her he never knows where he stands.

Finally, she smiles again, gives his hips a gentle squeeze that sends a shiver rippling over his skin. How embarrassing, after all his aeons of experience, to feel so overwhelmed just because of a goofy smile and a light squeeze. But that ceases to matter at all, because suddenly her hands are on his cheeks and she is coaxing him down until-

Her lips are soft and slow over his. Never taking, never demanding. Just the patient and rythmic movement of waves over the sand.

His hands come to rest on her waist, afraid that if he goes further she will push him away once more. He doesn't think he could stand it if that happened, if she looked at him again like she had that day. Would she had kissed him like this, if she had never been able to break the effect of his charm over her? Probably not. It would have been hot and passionate, and he would have felt just as empty as before it had started. He wouldn't have felt like this, in any case.

He can feel the first vestiges of lust come from her, then, but they are overshadowed by something far larger, something he can almost remember from a long time ago. A time before the fall, when he had another name and his wings still had pure white feathers.

His breath catches and he breaks the kiss, hoping that she doesn't notice his sudden panic.

“So, I take it you like the dress, then?” he asks, trying to distract her. He hasn't blushed like this in millennia, and the thought of it only makes him go redder with embarrassment.

She grins. A mischievous thing that shows her tiny, unsharpened fangs and makes her eyes crinkle at the corners. “I love it.”

Asmodeus doesn't notice that she has bought it for him until she hands him the bag outside, her grin making a reappearance at his stunned expression. He opens the bag and there it is, golden and soft and everything he isn't.

“It suits you,” she says, then scrunches up her nose. “I don't want anyone else to wear it, they wouldn't look as good.”

He's a stuttering mess for the rest of the evening, but he can't find it in himself to care when she smiles at him like that and he feels the weight of her present in his hand. It does suit him, doesn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -I just want Asmo to be loved instead of lusted after, yanno? I feel that he has built his own personality on the basis that the only thing good about him is his body and what he can do with it and I... hate it? It feels like he gives his body away to be liked because the other option is to be alone :(
> 
> -I can't stand it when they write Asmo thirsting over his brothers, so I present to thee: Asmo likes to tease his brothers about who their crushes but is also like, the best wingman
> 
> -At first Satan was going to be like 'Avenge us brother' instead of 'He got him' because it's fucking hilarious to me, but it would have been too OOC even for me so I left it out...
> 
> -Next chapter will probably be a mix between Lucifer and Mammon, since we haven't seen how they are coping with Tea-Time yet. Rest assured though, next up are either Levi or Satan! (Probably Levi, but who knows)


	6. Interdictio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer is the one in need of a spa day tbh, no wonder this man has grey hair already.
> 
> Mammon is a soft crybaby and I love him, more at eleven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have rewritten this monstrosity four times. Four. Times. This chapter FOUGHT me. I still don't like how it turned out but I refuse to let this thing eat more weeks of my life so here u go.  
> Did I proof read this? Absolutely not. Will I ever do so? Maybe when I stop being filled by rage every time I read it.
> 
> There's a scene in this chapter that I can only describe as Ikea porn, and I am very tempted to include it in the tags. Just to fuck with people, you know? Like you see the tag 'Ikea porn' and ur like, do they fuck in an Ikea??? But no, I'm just describing a room. It's like being Rick Rolled, but disappointing.

Lucifer stares at the door for a few minutes after she closes it, waiting for his body to unwind.

It is more nerve-wracking than he remembered, to be at the mercy of a new master. The first few days after pledging his loyalty to Lord Diavolo had been filled with anxiety. What would he ask of him? What did he want? He had known the demon from before, of course, had treated him like the dirt beneath his boot that he had been, that he had thought of him as.

And now look at Lucifer, mighty as he had been, a dog with two masters.

It would only be a matter of time to see which one held the leash the tightest.

Lord Diavolo was lenient for most things. He liked to keep an air of congeniality between them, even going so far as to call Lucifer a friend. But his oath of loyalty had always been a barrier that Lucifer himself felt he could neither cross nor forget, and that had made the relationship strained.

Now Ione... Ione was an unknown. He didn't know what she would use their pact for, and the fact was that she hadn't been in the best of terms with Lucifer even before he... before what happened yesterday.

His stomach lurches at the memory. She had been angry enough to forfeit her own life just to spite them, to bring to them even the smallest sliver of punishment. And Lucifer had given her power over him, had made her dangerous not only to himself, but his brothers as well. What had he been thinking?

He hadn't been thinking, obviously.

The mere thought of seeing his brothers punished for his mistake had been enough to make him kneel. Him, the Avatar of Pride – most beloved by Father once – brought low by a human. And in front of his brothers, no less. What do they think of him, now, after seeing his humiliation?

Not to mention the already agitated political climate. Lord Diavolo's vision had already been met with scorn from the nobility, being able to proceed with it only by virtue of having the support of the seven Lords of Sin. If it became known that Diavolo could lose that, could have his authority challenged by the pact of a human... his opposition would grow bolder still.

Not everyone was willing to pass on their loyalty to the prince. As long as his father slept, the oldest demons, set in their ways, would claim that they had no obligation towards anyone else. The Lords of Sin were part of the upper echelon, yes, powerful enough to defy the royal family. But they were newcomers, after all, brought to the court by the prince.

A smart movement on Diavolo's part, to ensure that their loyalty would lie with him and not his father, but without them, his power crumbled. Barbatos' might was a deterrant, of course. His power could ensure that Diavolo always came on top; the chess pieces would be sent back to their original places until the game was won, and the memory of past failures removed from the very fabric of existence. But even Barbatos' power could fail him, and once was all it took.

Understandably, Lord Diavolo had wanted to control the flow of information, and it had been decided that Lucifer's pact would be revealed by Lord Diavolo himself, as if it had counted with his blessing from the beginning. For this purpose, they had decided that it would be best for the human to have as little contact with the outside of the House of Lamentation as possible, so as to curb the possibilities of anyone finding out about it before it was time. They could only keep her from assisting RAD for so long without being suspicious though, and so they had decided on three days, during which she would be under the watchful eye of his brothers.

Lucifer is just glad that this coincides with the usual party Lord Diavolo hosts at the Demon Lord's Castle every month; at least they won't have to change the date and make it seem rushed.

That evening, the specifications for her new room are sent to him diligently. The messages are curt and to the point. Lucifer keeps waiting for her to flaunt her new power over him, even a mention of it, but no such thing happens. Is she waiting for him to lower his guard? Surely, if she resents them so much, she must be plotting something.

He loathes to admit it, but the idea of letting her choose her own room had been in part to keep her happy, to appease her, if you will. Not that it took much effort to do so, but he was hoping that this gesture of good will would pave the road to a, hopefully, mutually respectful partnership.

Now the only thing he can do is wait for her next move, which does nothing to ease his worries.

* * *

The rhythmic tapping of her five nails in sucession over the table is the only thing that can be heard in the room. It has been like that for the past ten minutes, and with every new tap Mammon grows more anxious.

He still can't look at her. He isn't angry, not really. Just- very frustrated, and maybe a bit sad. Is it so bad here? Is spending a year with him such a horrible thing that she would rather... that she would rather die?

He thought she was doing okay. And isn't that part of the problem itself? That he never paid enough attention to understand what was really going through her head? She never seemed sad, or angry. She never seemed nothing other than happy. What had she been thinking when she smiled at him? Had she been sad when she laughed at his jokes? Had she wanted to die already when she ran her fingers through his hair?

He realizes with a jolt that there's been silence for a while now, and turns to look at her, half expecting to find her cold, eyes closed in an eternal sleep. Instead, he just finds her eyes boring into him, silent and blank. She's just staring, waiting for something, though he doesn't know what.

To his surprise, she is the first one to look away, her lips pursed.

Mammon feels like he needs to say something, anything, so he blurts the first thing that comes to mind. “Wha- what are ya lookin' at, huh?!”

“An idiot,” she says without missing a beat, frowning. Is she mad at him? Mammon bristles at her comment, but he doesn't have time to retort before she asks, suddenly quiet, “what were you thinking about?” She has started to fidget with a pearl necklace, seemingly counting them.

“N-nothin'!” he denies by force of habit. He does want to ask all of the questions swirling in his head, and this is probably the perfect moment for it, but he isn't sure he wants to know the answer. What will he do if she says 'yes'? If she tells him that every moment spent joking with him in class, annoying Levi together, she was only thinking about how to end her own life?

He doesn't know. He feels like he is being emptied, like someone is taking scoops of Mammon flavoured ice-cream one by one, plunging the stupid spoon deeper and deeper and hollowing him out.

Is that why she never shows interest in anything he offers? Never looking twice at all the riches he discreetely presents to her. How could someone who wants to die be tempted, when the dead want for nothing? He has been so stupid. Why can't he do anything right? Now he can't even tempt a stupid human enough for them to want to live. Maybe if he had been better, she would have felt the desire to continue existing, even if only to keep amassing treasure out of greed. He's so fucking useless, he doesn't know how his brothers manage to stand him-

The briefest touch against his cheek startles him, and he is pulled out of his thoughts only to be met with her concerned face hovering inches above his. Her hand is poised as if she wants to touch him again, but is unsure if she is allowed to.

He feels the sob shake his body before he even hears it, and he grabs her outstretched hand to pull her closer, using too much force and making her fall on top of him. He doesn't really care, barely even notices her weight on his lap as his arms wrap around her as tight as he dares. With the second sob, he hides his face on her neck, trying to keep the pitiful whine that's building on his chest as quiet as possible. He isn't very successful, but the embarrassment will have to wait until he isn't a crying wreck.

After a while, her arms tentatively come up to hold him, their jerking motions a contrast to her usual confidence. One of her hands gingerly rests on his shoulder, as the other combs through his hair, familiar and comforting. It is the warmth of her hands what finally manages to calm him down, reminding him that, whatever she might have wanted in the past, she chose to stay. She has chosen to be here, now, with him, useless as he might be.

His hand travels down her back in search of her ankle, finding the reassuring touch of the anklet still there, tying her to Mammon. He closes his hand possessively over it for a second, and then merely lets it rest there when her hand on his hair halts at his actions.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbles, his lips brushing against her skin as he speaks. He will probably be flustered about this later, but for now he craves the comfort of her touch, reaffirming that she is alive.

She resumes dragging her nails over his scalp and, much to his surprise, bends down enough to place a lingering kiss on the crown of his head. Then, she rests her chin there, her hand abandonig his hair altogether in favour of joining the other behind his back, returning his hug. “About what?” she asks, her voice quiet. If it wasn't for the steadiness of her tone, he would have thought her to be crying too.

_Everything_ , he wants to say, but it's too much to explain right now. “I- I was avoiding ya, these past two days. I didn't-”

“It's fine.” She doesn't let him finish his sentence, and when Mammon is about to speak again, her arms tighten slightly around him. He takes it as a signal that, whatever it is, she doesn't want to hear it, at least not now, and remains quiet.

He sighs, calming down as she starts rocking them back and forth, humming a song he has never heard before. Back and forth, back and forth. Like a child in a cradle being rocked into sleep. Mammon can't help but huff, this isn't what he'd had in mind when he imagined them in this position, Ione sitting on his lap with her knees on either side of his thighs and his mouth pressed firmly to her neck.

Not at all unpleasant, though. He can't complain about it.

Mammon doesn't know how long they stay like that. Not enough, in his opinion. But when his turn is over and Lucifer comes by his room to pick her up, he doesn't exactly have a valid excuse to keep her with him other than the fact that he still feels a bit hollow, like his words ought to echo inside him as he speaks.

* * *

Ione does not talk as they walk, which Lucifer finds unsettling. The last time she had been quiet while walking beside him had ended with her trying to commit suicide out of spite, so he thinks his worry is understandable.

A discreet look at her out of the corner of his eye reveals her slouched posture, hands buried deep inside her pockets. She seems to be deep in thought, her blank face staring, unseeing, down at the carpet. Lucifer clears his throat.

“Your room has already been fixed and furnished appropiately,” he says, garnering her attention. “I'm positive it will be to your liking.”

Ione's hands do not leave her pockets but her posture straightens. “Are we, uh, are we going to go see it now?”

Lucifer rises an eyebrow. “Was there something else you wished to do?”

“Ah, no. Nothing.” She clears her throat and looks away from him, to the wall, as if the paintings there are the most interesting thing in the world. Apparently, having him under a pact means that she can now dismiss him at will. It is annoying, and demeaning, to not be able to do anything about it, but until he knows exactly what is expected of him, he refuses to give her an excuse to use the pact against him. He remains silent, clenching his fists in frustration.

The walk towards her room seems to stretch into eternity, bathed in their combined silence, but finally they reach their destination and Lucifer opens the door for her. What she asked was simple enough, to be honest. When he had given her free reign over it, he had fully expected her to go a bit overboard, going as far as reserving a bit of his savings for the expenses. In the end, though, the original budget he had set aside for it had been more than enough.

To the left of the door, closest to the corner, was a table with a few chairs, not too big, but enough to work on anything RAD related. A bit further and still to the left was a fireplace with two armchairs above a rug, and across from it, a hanging chair big enough to take a nap in if one wished. Flanked by the fireplace and the hanging chair, a window door leads to a small balcony full of greenery – all the flowers having been properly checked so as to not let her get in contact with anything poisonous again; once bitten, twice shy.

To the right there is a small set of stairs that lead to the second level of the room, where the bed is. It was, probably, the oddest request so far. Circular and imbedded on the floor, it resembles a large nest more than a bed, filled with an assortment of pillows on top of the custom made mattress. A sheer sheet hangs from a point on the ceiling, providing a canopy embroidered with daisies. To the left of the bed, two steps lead to a third level, where the wall has been divided into four equal spaces, three for the bookshelves and a fourth one for a cushioned window seat wedged between them.

Taking advantage of the space beneath the bed and miniature library, two doors, on each side of the stairs, lead to a dresser and a bathroom respectively. A very practical design despite all the added-in commodities, he must say.

The whole thing is very welcoming and homey, with how most things are made of wood instead of the metal framework that Mammon or the twins had favoured for their two-story rooms. The only metallic thing that one can find is the hanging chair, which needed to have a strong structure. All in all, Lucifer is quite proud of how well he has managed to bring her design to life.

A look at her face, however, makes him wonder if perhaps he has made a grave mistake. Her face is crumpled, tears running down her cheeks as she sniffs pitifully with her red nose. Lucifer isn't sure what is happening, to be honest, and not knowing is... distressing.

“Is the room not to your liking?” he asks, trying to make sense of the situation.

She sniffs loudly, breathes deep in an effort to calm herself to talk. “No, it's- It's perfect.”

Ione's voice cracks at the end of the phrase, a sound that seems to predate her final breakdown. She sits on the steps to the second level and covers her face with both hands, the uncontrollable sobs jostling her shoulders. Even then, she barely makes a sound other than a small, high-pitched, whine, that she cuts off almost immediately.

“I-I'm sorry,” she tries to say. “I don't- I d-don't know why...”

Her composure doesn't last for long though, and she never finishes the phrase, but Lucifer thinks he can take a guess at what she wanted to say. It suddenly clicks that, most likely, this is the delayed reponse that Satan had been speaking of. Just his luck, that it would happen now. What is he supposed to do now? He has no idea how to console her, or even if she wants him to, given that her emotional distress was partially caused by him in the first place.

Slowly, tentatively, he sits beside her and puts an arm around her shoulders. “I believe this might have been due for a while,” he says, hoping that rationalizing her reaction will help her calm down. He obtains no response, and she doesn't lean against him for comfort. Lucifer his surprised to notice the small pang of disappointment this brings, but he decides to ignore it, frowning. It's probably because she reminds him of-

Nevermind.

“Did I do something that set this off?” he asks, handing her a handkerchief. As far as he knows, the only thing he did was walk her here and open the door.

Ione wipes her tears with the back of her hand, and uses the handkerchief to clean her nose. The tears haven't subsided, but at least she seems to feel good enough to speak. “No? It's just- Th-The room and- and everyone is so nice and I- I can't-”

Lucifer humms, though he doesn't quite understand what she means. “Isn't that what you wanted?”

“No- Yes? I don't know, okay? It's just- It's too much.”

Ah, overwhelmed, then. He isn't sure what, exactly, is so overwhelming about a room, but so long as she likes it it doesn't matter. He stays beside her throughout her whole episode, not saying anything else, waiting as the sobs recede and finally disappear. He watches her hug her knees, leaning her chin on top of them and closing her eyes, exhausted.

He would like to let her rest, after this, but there is a pressing matter that he wanted to discuss with her, and this situation has done nothing but cement his belief that he needs to do it as soon as possible. “I have been researching human books about psychology,” he starts, and feels her tense under his arm. He withdraws it. “If you would like, perhaps I could take you to the human world, see if an expert thinks it necessary some sort of prescription or-”

“What.” Her deadpan tone doesn't betray any feelings on the matter, although the stiffness of her shoulders tells him everything he needs to know.

Lucifer gets up and walks to the other side of the room, where he can talk to her face to face and lean against the table, giving her some space so she won't feel cornered. “Most cases of suicidal tendencies are treated with psychotherapy and, if needed, with the help of medication or, and I am not saying that this is the case, addiction treatment.”

She lets out a single, derisive bark of laughter. “Oh, _I'm sorry_ , are you an expert now? After, what, three days of light reading?”

“All I am saying,” Lucifer says, takes a deep breath to avoid letting her anger him, “is that, should you want to, I would accompany you to get any help you may need-”

“How dare you,” she whispers, then stands to her full height, her posture aggressive. The tears are falling again, but her voice is steady in its anger. “How dare you say that after- After all your bullshit!”

Lucifer purses his lips, his hands coming to join at his back in a stiff posture. He needs to defuse the situation. “I apologize for my previous actions, however-”

“No, _fuck you_! I'm not crazy, I don't fucking need medication, and I don't fucking need. Your. _Help_ ,” she interrupts, seething.

Lucifer takes another calming breath, feeling his power simmer. “I won't make you do anything you don't want,” he simply states, the words clipped.

Ione snorts. “Sure you won't, like anything I've ever said has mattered to you.”

Yes, it is true that he has, many times before, ignored her obvious discontent at being in the Devildom. Now, however... He strides towards her, the sudden movement making Ione take a step back. The higher position on the stairs makes her stand slightly taller than him. Ignoring her narrowed eyes, he quickly snatches her right hand and rises it to her eye level so that she may see his mark on her index finger. “Does this mean nothing to you, then?” he asks with a rised eyebrow. He has not humiliated himself in front of his brothers, and subjected himself to a pact with a human, just for said human to dismiss it so easily.

“Ah.” Her anger abates, her eyes a bit crosseyed as she tries to look at her own finger so close to her face.

“Allow me to rephrase my previous statement,” Lucifer says. “I _cannot_ make you do anything you don't want. Your bargaining chip was your own life, and so long as you have breath with which to speak, I am yours to command.”

Ione stares him in the eyes for a long time, her face impassive. Then, finally, she speaks. “Don't ever bring this up again, then. And leave.”

Lucifer clenches his teeth, making a conscious effort not to close his hand around her wrist, shattering it to pieces. “As you command, Master,” he says, lowering his eyes.

* * *

Knocking on her door is more unnerving than it should probably be. Mammon has slept here before, after all, though he guesses that he has never done it in her 'new room', and never purposefully. He has always stayed the night for convenience's sake, after she has been helping him study until late – and why was she so good at everything already? She just started attending RAD, the nerd – or during one of their movie nights. Then again, the last example doesn't even count, because those times Beel had stayed as well, so it was different.

_This_ feels different.

He is so nervous that he probably knocks louder than necessary. More frantic, too. By the time she opens her door, he is a sweating mess and he has to discreetely – he hopes – clean his palms by quickly rubbing them on his pants.

“What is it? I was on the phone!” she hisses. Her annoyance melts upon seeing him, though Mammon all can see is her eyes. They are red and puffy, as if she has been crying. What did Lucifer _do_? His displeasure only deepens when she frowns and continues talking. “If Lucifer sent you-”

“Wha-? As if I'd let him order _me_ around!” he bristles. He wants to know why she thinks Lucifer would send him, but he can't bring himself to ask, at the moment; he's too nervous. What if she sends him away? She obviously didn't consider him as close as he had hoped, given that she had never even mentioned how she felt until- Until that night.

Her only response is to look at him with a rised eyebrow, as if challenging his last statement.

“Look, can I come in or not?” he asks. “I ain't got all night.”

Ione shrugs, stepping away from the door and leaving it open for him, and he follows, inspecting the room as he walks in. It does feel like her, in a sense. Not exactly what he was expecting but... it's undoubtedly her room, that is for sure.

“Did you just come here to see the new room?” she asks, her voice startling him. “You could have come tomorrow instead of...” she trails off, looking at her D.D.D. “It's already midnight?”

“Who cares about your room? I'm sleepin' with ya, of course!” He hopes that stating it as a fact will be enough to convince her, though he isn't above throwing a tantrum if she says no. At the very least, he can be annoying enough to convince her to let him stay, he thinks. If it works with Lucifer after they've been watching scary movies, it will work on anybody. Mammon has the 'kicked puppy look' down to an art.

As it turns out, the puppy eyes are unneeded. Ione blinks, looking mildly surprised, before agreeing with a shrug and a simple ' _aight_ '. Then she steps into a small side room, to change into her pijamas, he supposes. He isn't sure, surprised as he is at the easy way she accepted him into her personal space. He has become so used to rejection that Ione's tendency to allow him near her is enough to root him into place.

Mammon watches her walk into a side room and close the door behind her, and doesn't move until he realizes that maybe standing in the same spot for the rest of the night would seem weird. What is he supposed to do while she is gone doing... whatever it is she's doing, though? He doesn't want to start riffling through her drawers, as curious as he is about what kind of things she has purchased since the last time he was here; he doesn't want her to walk out and see him. She will probably think he is stealing.

Unsure, he makes his way upstairs, inspecting the wall to the left of the bed, already decorated with the posters that survived his fight with Levi. Most of them are of music bands he doesn't recognize, as well as a couple of what he thinks might be videogames, or maybe movies. It's hard to tell the difference sometimes.

Off to the side, at eye level, there is a cork board empty save for a small, white strip of paper, held in place by two tacks at each of its extremes. ' _I am but a garden yet to_ _bloom_ ,' it reads. There is nothing else that might tell him where it is from, and he is struck by the oddity of it being the only thing pinned to the board. Though, he supposes, she probably hasn't had any time to pin anything else.

The paper must be old, he thinks, yellowed as it is, the handwritten words mostly faded except for a few lucky letters towards the center.

“I leave you for fime minutes and you start snooping?”

Her words startle him enough to make him let out a little 'eep' of surprise, though he tries to cover it by protesting. He wasn't doing anything wrong, after all. He was just reading some slip of paper on the wall. “It ain't snooping if it's at eye level and ya don't have to even move anythin' to see.”

Ione rolls her eyes at his words. However, before he has any time to bristle at her dismissal, she says, “well, are you coming to bed or what?” and he gets understandably distracted.

As thay settle under the covers and she closes her eyes, Mammon can't help but despair at the sight of her peaceful face, so alike the ones he had seen in the past with twin coins over their eyes.

* * *

**Lord Diavolo:**

How was your conversation with Ione?

I hope it helped?

**Me:**

I have been forbidden from talking about the subject.

**Lord Diavolo:**

D:

Oh, no.

What happened?

**Me:**

My suggestion angered her.

That is all my pact will let me say about it.

So do not bother asking why.

**Lord Diavolo:**

I see that your conversation with her has soured your mood, my friend.

**Me:**

My apologies, Lord Diavolo.

I did not wish to sound so curt.

Merely to inform you of what I could and couldn't talk about.

**Lord Diavolo:**

Not to worry, I understand.

:)

I have made few pacts, myself, but it is always stressing, is it not?

If it helps calm your nerves,

know that I will address the proper way of treating a Lord of Sin,

under a pact or not, when she joins me for tea.

**Me:**

Thank you, My lord.

Though I do not think she will abuse her power.

This has been the only instance of her addressing the pact until now.

**Lord Diavolo:**

Still, it doesn't hurt to make sure.

;D

**Me:**

As you wish, My Lord.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fun fact a serious note and the headcanon of a simbology and theology nerd:
> 
> -the song Ione was humming to Mammon was 'remember me' from coco :3
> 
> -please note that Ione's view on medication is very harmful and also incorrect. Needing to take meds for a mental illness doesn't make you crazy or worse than anyone else, if they help you then that's it. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise (and if they do, break their kneecaps, you are legally allowed to do so. It's true, I checked)
> 
> -at first I had considered making Lucifer put his mark on her middle finger, so that she can show it off by flipping the bird to people. It would have been a power move, that's for sure. However, in a traditional jewish ceremony, the right index finger is where you put the wedding ring. This is important because jewish traditions precede the christian ones (Jesus Christ was circumsized, for example, and the virgin mary was raised jewish. The old testament is a part of jewish scriptures nowadays) and I headcanon, in this universe, that such traditions originated from angelic culture and were adopted into human society because of osmosis, seeing as how they interacted more with humans before the first celestial war. Lucifer's mark being on the right index finger would, in this case, symbolize the formation of a bond of sorts, although not romantic in nature (yet)  
> Still, it being in the middle finger would have been hilarious, and sometimes I regret...


	7. Kokuhaku

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Levi spends like two pages being an anxious mess, then another two being relentlessly bullied by a hot hot normie, and then he finally grows a spine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please be kind to me, I've never encountered a gamer in their natural habitat, I don't speak their dialect :'(
> 
> tbh I tried to make this a bit more serious but levi is a conduit for comedy and he overpowered me with his otaku abs that he should not have
> 
> this stupid ass behemoth of a chapter is 16 pages long wtf is Levi actually my fave????? *x files music starts playing*

Maybe standing outside her door makes him look a bit like a creep, all things considered, but what else is Leviathan suppossed to do? She isn't answering any of his messages, not even in Mononoke Land, and she _always_ answers those immediately, which means that she's probably still sleeping.

Or dead.

Well probably not that, but a guy worries, okay?

He curses Mammon yet again. He should have woken her up when he left for RAD, like he was supposed to. Instead, he has left Leviathan with a problem, because he now has to get in there and wake her up himself, or let her sleep the morning away and risk Lucifer getting angry at him – as if he hadn't been seething already that morning – for 'wasting the morning' when it wasn't the weekend.

In Leviathan's humble opinion, the time of the day doesn't really matter when he can assist to online clases whenever he wants, so why does Lucifer always insist in such a strict routine? It doesn't make any sense, it's not like the sun ever rises here or anything.

Whatever.

The thing is, he doesn't want to wake her up. It just seems... too intimate. She's probably asleep in some compromising position, like in harem mangas, when the protagonist enters the love interest's room and she's sleeping with only a skimpy outfit and then he falls on top of her and she gets mad at him but she also kind of likes it because she is blushing and the protagonist is also blushing _and their faces are so close and they almost kiss_ -

Anyways, he can't do it.

But Lucifer... Uuugh, this is so not fair!

Leviathan knocks again on the door, hoping against hope that this time there will be an answer, but his optimism is met by silence. Damn it.

It was worth a try.

Okay, so he just has to... get in and yell really loud.

No, he can't do that, Ione will kill him. Or worse, delete his save files. She's vicious.

Then again, if he wakes her up by falling on top on her she will do that either way, so it's not like the end result will be any different. The possibility of that is too low though, there's no way he would be so luc- Unlucky. There's no way he will be so _unlucky_ , so he should just- go and shake her awake. It's fine. It's going to be fine, he's been here before-

But he hasn't really been here before, this is a _girl's room_ , and when he was in her prior room it wasn't really a _girl's room_... well it was, technically, because Ione was staying in it and she was a girl, but this isn't like that. This is _Ione's_ room.

The sound of a clock striking eleven, somewhere within the House of Lamentation, startles him. He has been here for _forty five minutes_? If he keeps thinking about it he will stand outside her door for the rest of the morning, which is unacceptable, because he has plans for today and he even cleared the whole morning of previous appointments with his guild and he can't let that go to waste.

Finally, he turns the doorknob, painting a thin line of light in the otherwise dark room.

A last sliver of doubt makes him pause to send one more message, just in case. 'If u don't answer rn I'm going to wake u stat', he writes, and waits for a few seconds. He hears the chime of her D.D.D. somewhere to the right of the room, but other than that, there's no movement to denote that she is awake.

Sighing, he pushes the door open fully and enters, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Sometimes, he thinks as everything comes into focus, being the only one of his brothers whose demon form is adapted for the depths of the ocean has its perks.

It soon becomes clear that neither the bed nor Ione are situated on the first level floor, and he hesitantly starts to make his way upstairs, feeling nervous. What if she isn't decent?! No, no. She has to at least be wearing her pijamas, right? She wouldn't let Mammon sleep with her if she was _naked_. And her pijamas are acceptable. They are definitely unsexy. The least sexy thing he has ever witnessed in his long, long life. So that's cool. Cool, cool, cool. He isn't hyperventilating because he's anxious at all, he's just getting winded by the stairs. All of their... nine steps. That lead to his friend.

His friend that apparently has been wearing his jacket because it 'makes her feel better'.

...That's kinda cute.

Not as cute as Ruri-chan, of course! But... cute.

He steels himself when he reaches the end of the stairs and finds a sheer canopy, thick enough that he can only make out her silhouette... and curses under his breath. Why is the bed on the floor?! Now he _has_ to get down, and it's going to be awkward no matter what he does! Does he sit on the floor beside the bed? Kneel? He can't wake her with his foot... can he? No, she'd probably burn his figurines and make him watch; he has played enough online games with her to know that she holds nothing sacred.

But he can't just- lean over her when she's sleeping, that's creepy, and he's not a creep, even though he's probably been standing here and watching her sleep for a while now. _Ugh_. How would the Lord of Shadows wake up Henry? He wouldn't hesitate so much, that's for sure. And waking up your best friend is completely normal and fine! It's not awkward at all! In TSL volume two, when the Lord of Shadows has to lift the curse of Eternal Nightmares off of Henry, he doesn't waver at all! He's so happy to see his friend after being separated from him for so long that he wastes no time kneeling besides Henry's sleeping form to use the Bell of Dawn to wake him!

It's fine. He can do this. If the Lord of Shadows could, then so does Leviathan!

He kneels down on the fluffy rug beside the bed and pulls back the canopy, ready to shake her awake, but is stopped by the sight that greets him. Amongst innumerable cushions of various shapes and colours, curled up, is Ione... with his jacket.

_Oh, come on_.

He sits back cross-legged, covering his burning face with both hands in an attempt to escape the situation. That's just too much! Henry wouldn't do that to the Lord of Shadows! Why is this happening to him?!

Leviathan picks up his D.D.D. debating whether calling Lucifer and telling him that he's giving up would be marginally better than this, and almost screams in frustration when he sees the time on the screen. Eleven fifteen already? Really? He's been silently panicking for fifteen minutes?!

It has been, officially, one hour since he started the arduous task of waking her up. Time that would have been better spent farming for rare crafting materials. But. He. Is. Still. Here.

It's _so_ unfair, why do these things have to happen to him?

Well, that's it. No more doubts. He's going to wake her up right now!

Right now.

Riiiight...

...now.

Any moment.

He's doing it.

…

Okay. That's enough stalling.

With a deep breath, Leviathan leans over, a hand stretched towards her shoulder, the other sinking slightly on the softness of the mattress. The moment he makes contact though, her eyelids flutter and he stills, holding his breath. She's going to wake up _now_? Now, of all times?! She's had a full hour to wake up!

Unbelievable.

She makes a small, whiny sound, and then tugs at his arm, still without opening her eyes. When Leviathan doesn't move, paralyzed as he is, she tugs more insistently, her brows furrowing.

“U-uhm, Ione?” he calls, tentatively. “I mean, you stupid n-normie! Wake up already!”

Leviathan shakes his arm to dislodge her, and she finally opens her eyes with a disgruntled expression. “Levi...?” she calls, sitting up.

“Who else?! It's about time you woke up, I've been messaging you nonstop all morning!” He takes this opportunity to scramble backwards, well out of her reach. She might have gotten him once, when his guard was lowered, but never again!

Frowning, she rummages through the cushions and pillows, finally pulling out her phone from within the confines of the blanket and squinting at the brightness of the screen. “Levi... are all _forty eight_ messages yours?” she asks, disbelief written on her voice.

“ _No_ ,” he retorts. “Of course not! ...only forty two.”

And okay, maybe they're too many messages, but she wasn't answering! And he really didn't want to wake her up because he knew it would be awkward and he was right and now he can't look her in the eye because she's wearing _his_ jacket!

“That's my jacket!” He half-yells while he points at her with an accusing finger, in part because he's trying to distract her from the fact that he flooded her messages like a loser, and in part because, well, it _is_ his jacket.

She fixes him with an unimpressed stare. “Nah.”

“Wh-what? What does that even mean?!”

“It's mine now,” she replies, which is ridiculous, because _that's not true_.

Leviathan stands up, huffing. “What?! No, give it back!”

Ione, in turn, takes special interest in her nails. “No.”

“Please?” he asks, disheartened.

She crosses her arms and shoots him a defiant look. “My jacket now. You left it with me, and I'm keeping it.”

It doesn't even work like that! “But it's my favourite...” he whines. It's not fair!

Ione pouts, playing with the enamel pins on it distractedly. Finally, she says, “I may be willing to trade it...”

Trade it for what?! And she can't bargain with something that is his already! It's _his_ jacket!

* * *

“Hmmmm... This one is acceptable.”

He had ended up being convinced by her quoting the law of Equivalent Exchange to him, which had been enough of a pleasant surprise to distract him from the fact that he was, indeed, technically paying for something he already owned.

The heart of the matter is this: he will have to give up one of his hoodies to get the jacket back.

So here they are, in his room, inspecting his wardrobe in search of a hoodie that she likes and that he won't mind losing. This turns out to be an old piece of Revolutionary Girl Utena merchandise from a few years ago, that he bought on a whim and only wore once. It sort of resembles Utena's uniform, bottom frills and all, though simplified.

Leviathan isn't sure why she wants one of his hoodies – okay so he maybe has a very very improbable theory but he's too scared to ask in case he's mistaken – but if it will get him back his favourite jacket then she can have three. Not that he's going to tell her that.

“Oh, by the way, you had a figurine in one of your pockets,” she says, as she finally hands his precious jacket over. “It was a turtle? I think?”

“ _What?_ And where is it?” he looks in the pockets, already knowing that he won't find it there. The figure in question is the Lord of Shadows mutant turtle pet, Jerry, and it's an invaluable collectible that he got from a gacha after no less than thirty one pulls. He'd had it in his pocket that day because sometimes he took a figurine with him – for moral support – when he had to go out to buy something he couldn't find online, and he had forgotten to put it back in its place upon his return.

Ione inspects her reflection in the inside-mirror of his closet, turning this way and that to see how the hoodie fits her. Nevermind that it's several sizes bigger than it should. “Eeeh, I don't know.”

“ _What do you mean you don't know_.”

“I could be reminded, for a price, maybe.” Her reflection grins at him.

Leviathan really, really hates it when she grins like that, he's learnt that it never means anything good. For him, that is.

Several minutes – and an unspecified small favour to collect at a future date – later, Leviathan has his things back, and finally remembers that there was actually something he wanted to do this morning that didn't involve being bullied by a normie and bartering for his own stuff.

“Oh, yeah, before I forget!” he says, placing Jerry on its place on the shelf to cover his nervousness. “Wait there a second, and close your eyes. And _don't_ move!”

“Uhhhh sure?”

Although her tone is of wariness, she does as he said, covering her eyes and stopping in her pursuit to make his gamer chair spin as fast as possible – a habit that he is sure she picked up with the sole purpose of vexing him. He's trying to ignore it now, if only to see if the lack of a reaction will get her to stop, seeing as his complaints are always met with some variation of 'and who's gonna stop me, gamer boy?'. He never rises up to the challenge anymore, last time he tried, she spent a whole night online hounding him with the sole company of a sniper rifle and a camo-cloak, and his online friends had never let him live it down. Twenty three deaths in a row via head-shot and his total humiliation, delivered with a healthy dose of shit talking. It was a hard thing to recover from.

Then again, her insistence in annoying him has always been more playful than harmful, and he has never really felt like she was laughing at his expense. Asmo always says that it's just her way to pull him out of his shell, and Leviathan... doesn't really know how to feel about that. She seems to enjoy riling him up, yes, but how can he stay mad at her when her response to him getting pissed is to smile at him so warmly? It's like when he starts ranting and only realizes ten or twenty minutes later. Even when he apologizes, she always says that it's good that he's so passionate about things, and what is he supposed to answer to that?!

He searches the many akuzon boxes in his room until he finds the ones he had been looking for, and then dumps the one whose contents doesn't risk shattering to pieces on her lap, grinning at her little yelp of surprise. Yeah, take that! That's for stealing his jacket and holding Jerry hostage and for always being so confusing! She will probably get back at him for this later, if her narrowed eyes are anything to go by, but for now he can savour his small victory.

“Wait, open this one first,” he instructs, handing her a box with 'fragile' written in black bold letters. She looks at him suspiciously, but takes it from his hands nonetheless and begins to slowly open it.

Slowly.

...Too slowly.

“Do you-”

“No, _I can do it_ ,” she says with gritted teeth as she wrestles with the duct tape. Her struggle would be comical, if it wasn't for the fact that the contents of the box are, indeed, fragile.

Finally – after a long, long process – she manages to open it, and Leviathan stares at her blank face as she pulls out its contents. “You got me... a lightbulb...?”

“It's a heat lamp! The rest of it is in the box,” he says, excited. “I read that humans actually need the sun to be healthy, so I got you a substitute! Do you like it? I bet you feel bad for being mean to me earlier, huh?”

She stares blankly at the lightbulb far too long for his liking, making him fidget as she starts turning the chair, left to right, left to right. Then, finally. “Of course I do! You couldn't give this to me earlier, you weeb?” He can't see it very well, because her face is turned away, but Leviathan would swear up and down that she was actually blushing a bit.

Revenge, how sweet is thy gust!

“Open the other one,” he says, taking the box of the heat lamp from her and placing it in the table behind his chair. “And don't call me that, I'm an otaku! _O-ta-ku_ , understand?”

Ione rolls her eyes, muttering curses under her breath as she renews her ongoing battle against the great foe that is duct tape. This time at least it takes her less than five minutes, which is progress, he guesses. “Okay,” she says, holding it up, “this time I really don't know what this is. Is it a... snuggie?”

Leviathan mimics the sound of a buzzer. “Wrooong. It's a kigurumi.”

“A kigurumi,” she echoes. She inspects it, then looks back at Leviathan. “Levi this is a furry suit.”

“ _No_ ,” he corrects her yet again, flustered, “it's a type of pyjamas.”

She closes her eyes and breathes, then tilts her head in acquiescence. “Okay, so let's say that this is a pyjama-”

“It is!”

“-Why did you get me sleepwear? I already have a couple of PJ's...” she trails off, ignoring his previous interruption.

“W-well, I was going to buy one for me but there was this discount if you bought two, and then the second one I wanted didn't have my size but I still wanted to get the discount so- I got one for you, so you can wear it on anime night, instead of your usual pyjamas.”

In truth, he'd been pretty scared, the night Lucifer had dumped the human – his Henry – on him and he'd come face to face with the realization that she _was_ mortal. He'd been aware of that, obviously, she is a human, after all, but it had never been so present until that night. For all that they reminded her of how fragile she was, Leviathan had never stopped to think too much about it. She would die, yes, but not _soon_ , there was a lot of time left until then, and he could enjoy his Henry as much as he wanted.

Now though, now he knows that that isn't the truth, and it's scary. It's scary because losing her means going back to his self-imposed isolation. It means no more teasing, no more ranting to something that isn't a headset, or a fish, or a figurine, no more anime recommendations and seeing her reactions to the stories he already knows and loves, living them anew with her.

No more Ione.

Death is an odd concept for immortal beings like him. It's this nebulous thing that just happens to _someone else_. They are aware of it, but loss is not something that they experience often. Why would they, when everyone else in their life is as longevous as them? Their relationships, be it friendship, love, or even hatred, last centuries, thousands of years. Slow to form and even slower to break. How are they supposed to deal with something that is, for all intents and purposes, so fleeting?

Leviathan would have never thought that he could become so attached to someone in such a short time – much less a 3D person – but he supposes that that's what humans do. They live their lives quickly, knowing that they have little time left. They appreciate each second and minute, make the most of it, and their relationships grow like a geometrical progression.

He, on the other hand, feels like he hasn't enjoyed his time with his friend to the fullest, content to just... coexist, and see where things went on their own. But he realizes, now, that he doesn't have enough time to be wasting it, doubting himself, doubting if she really enjoys spending time with him, or if he feels ready to leave the safety of his isolation and risk being known.

So he'd holed up in his room these past days, weighting the pros and cons of having a Henry that would leave so soon. Was he prepared to lose her, when she inevitably fell prey to the hands of time? It had hurt already the other night, when even the possibility had been presented to him, and he had only known her for a month or so, how would he feel after years of knowing her? Could he really watch his friend grow old and fade away? Was that pain worth the memories?

Ione, unaware of his train of thought, rises an eyebrow. “What's wrong with my usual pyjamas?”

“N-nothing! I just, uh, thought this would be more comfy...? And we match!” Existential crisis aside, how is he supposed to explain to his best friend that seeing her in an oversized tee with shorts is just too much, and he just doesn't have the fortitude to withstand that every anime night? Besides, she's his best friend! Ogling her feels weird!

“...It's not a cosplay, is it?”

“ _No._ ” Maybe.

* * *

“So, what's the plan for the morning?” she had asked, and Leviathan, like an idiot, had taken her to the pool.

The pool at the house of lamentation isn't so much a pool as it is a natural underground cavern filled with water that Leviathan uses to get away from everything else when it becomes too much. His brothers very rarely come here, they know that it's his special place to hide and that, when he's here, he's not particularly in the mood to be bothered. Besides, it's usually quite dark, because Leviathan has never bothered installing lights, as he can see just fine, and his brother's lack his ability to not smack his face on a stalagmite while walking.

The water in it is warm by virtue of the magma that flows deep down under the House of Lamentation – the whole Devildom was built over a dormant volcano that is kept stable by magic – which means that it's very pleasant for demons with more reptilian traits like him, and that there aren't any other creatures swimming in it. All in all, it's a perfect place if one wants to relax for a bit, or replicate an isolation chamber, if one has enough salt and the determination to be left the fuck alone – which Leviathan does.

There are, however, two problems that he, in his excitement, forgot about.

The first one is that Ione has even worse night vision than his brothers. This ins't a problem because she is afraid of the dark, or because she doesn't trust him, but rather the opposite. Because if she was afraid of the dark, or if she didn't trust Leviathan, she would be using the flashlight app of her phone like a normal, sane person, but instead she's just letting Leviathan guide her. By the hand. Which means that they're holding hands.

At least the darkness means that she can't see his blush, which he can feel spreading down his torso. He thinks he might be red all over, at this point.

Ione not being able to see him, though, doesn't mean that he can't see her, which leads to the second problem. He hadn't even thought about bathing suits. Bikinis show even more skin than pyjamas, which is already, in his opinion, too much. So his hesitance to even look in Ione's direction is perfectly understandable. Again, ogling his best friend is weird!

He's dreading the moment they finally get to the bottom of the carved stairs and into the cave proper, because the daemonite incrusted in the limestone sediments glows a greenish blue that becomes brighter when a full moon approaches, and he really really hopes that the cold light will drown his redness, or else she's going to see him and it's going to be embarrassing.

* * *

“Huh,” she says, in the tone she reserves for mildly interesting realizations.

“What? What is it?”

The way the water has eroded the limestone, there is a steep drop from the floor to the actual bottom of the pool, and Ione is using that to sit at the edge with her legs submerged from the knee down. She had been swimming for a while, enjoying the warmth of the water and the way the stone surrounding them muted all the sounds of the city above them, but she had gotten tired after a while, opting to watch lazily as Leviathan swam around the partially immersed stalagmites.

She had made this sound, in particular, when he emerged for air – he could hold his breath for long periods of time, but he couldn't breathe underwater. At his question, she motions for him to come closer, frowning, though she doesn't clarify. Needless to say, it does nothing to ease his nerves.

Once he is close enough she reaches for him, and the surprise of her sudden touch – added to the lack of leverage while he's in the water – makes him listlessly drift towards her as she pulls on his arm. She stops pulling only once he is close enough that his stomach touches the limestone edge, having opened her legs slightly to make room for him. She seems terribly interested in his face – is there something on it?! – clearly unbothered by their closeness, though Leviathan can't say the same.

He finds himself unable to move or protest in any way, his brain too preoccupied with making sense of the situation; by all intents and purposes, a deer in the headlights.

The image of his old PC comes to mind. It had overheated and had never been able to recover from the navy blue that had overtaken the three screens setup simultaneously; a honorable, if sad, death for his late gaming companion. He thinks he knows how it felt, then.

Ione's hand comes into contact with his forehead, pushing his bangs back, and there it is again, that small 'huh' of dawning realization. Leviathan doesn't think she even realizes when she does it. Gradually, her mildly surprised expression morphs into a frown. “What the hell, Levi?” she asks, accusingly.

Leviathan manages to overcome his mental crisis for a brief second, enough to answer and not look like a complete idiot. “W-what?” He feebly tries to kick at the stone to swim backwards and away from her, but her hands on his cheeks are enough to stop him.

Ione narrows her eyes, her face inching closer. “Why do you look like that? I hate you so much right now,” she says, her mouth taking the shape of a pout. Again, Leviathan doesn't think she realizes she's doing it.

“Did you make me swim all the way here just to call me _ugly_?” he asks, disbelieving. Fair enough, but still, rude. It's also not the sort of joke she usually makes to annoy him, so he's rather hurt.

“ _No, you weeb_. I'm saying that you look handsome with your hair out of your face and I hate it.” Ione scrunches up her nose, still pouting. “It feels weird, put it back.”

Leviathan's brain short-circuits and his mouth makes a sound that can only be described as a key-smash. She thinks he's handsome?! _Him_? Wait, no, more importantly. “ _Put it back_? I can't 'put it back', it's my face!”

Ione's face grows serious. “It's fine,” she reassures, “I'll pay for your surgery.”

He splutters. “I'm not getting surgery for my face, it's not even handsome!”

She narrows her gaze once again in a clear challenge to his words, her hands still squeezing his cheeks, then she moves them to the back of his head, interlacing her fingers through the sodden locks. Finally, she slowly, very slowly, closes the gap between them, softly pressing her lips against his cheek... and blowing a raspberry.

Leviathan splutters in indignation and, this time, she lets him go when he kicks back against the rock and submerges completely again. Maybe if he stays underwater until it's time for Satan's turn to watch her, his face will go back to its normal shade.

The vibrations of her laughter follow him even underwater.

* * *

_They look perfect together_ , is the only thing he can think of as he sees Ione and Solomon glide over the dancefloor together. Even their outfits match, the fabric glittering like a starry night with each of their movements.

He is the Avatar of Envy, he is used to covet things he can never have, but the burning need to lock her away somewhere only himself can reach is new. Most of the time he just wants things others have, not to deprive them of it, no, that would be greed, but maybe as an equalizer? He just wants to have the same nice things others do, honestly, it would only be fair. But Ione seems to be a special case.

Maybe it is because he knows that he can't have her, not the way Solomon could. They are both humans, after all, and they already spend so much time together... Ione always seems to seek him out for this or that, and shouldn't that be something you only do with your best friend? Is Leviathan not that to her? I he not the Lord of Shadows to his Henry?

Another, deeper part of him, whispers that that's not it. Not at all. Look at the way she smiles up at him. Look at the way his hand gently rests on her back. They seem as if they were made for each other, as if Father himself had carved them out of amethyst and stardust, and they were bound to be together for eternity. Leviathan wants that.

He desperately wants to stop being such an idiot. Is everything she has already given him not enough? He isn't greedy, he isn't Mammon, it _should_ be enough.

Leviathan watches her dance with Solomon, then Diavolo again – as the host, he'd had the honour of the first dance, and had asked Ione to be his partner – then hang from Lucifer's arm for the rest of the night, charming every demon of the upper echelon that approaches them. If she had looked like a part of a matching pair with Solomon, Lucifer seems to be the counterpoint that balances her perfectly. Where her presence is soft and ethereal by virtue of her dress, that floats behind her as she moves like a halo, Lucifer is a tangible shadow that weighs her down to the earth.

Their pact singles him out from his brothers, making him her partner, secure in his place beside her.

Leviathan also wants _that_.

* * *

The rooftop of RAD seems appropriate, even though there's not a single cherry blossom in sight, and he isn't exactly going to confess his feelings like a schoolgirl in a shoujo manga. Still, the symbolism stands, he thinks. Probably.

“Um, Levi?”

He startles when he hears her voice, a part of him hadn't expected her to actually come; they are supposed to be in class right now. When Lucifer finds out, he is going to be livid.

“Are you okay? You're looking pale,” she asks, concerned, when the silence stretches.

The moon hangs heavily above them, casting, he hopes, his face in shadows. It helps to think that he has that last shield, if things go wrong, that she won't see the disappointment. “I- uh, I told you to come here quickly, normie, why do you always take so long?!”

Crap. Why can he never say what he wants?

“Ugh, dude, not again. I'm not going to go around running. I'm not athletic, okay? And running around with a satchel makes you look stupid.”

Okay, so he can relate to that, fair enough.

Silence falls again on the rooftop like a blanket, muffling all the sound. Then, he takes a fortifying breath. He's terrified. “D-do you...? Uhm, would you like to, uuuh?”

In the midst of his attempts at talking like a normal person – which he isn't, that's probably why it isn't working – he doesn't notice her approach until she takes his hand. Its familiar weight settles him, like she is the one guiding him through the dark this time. “Hey, man,” she whispers, “it's okay, breathe.”

Leviathan hadn't noticed that he wasn't breathing. It isn't exactly an issue, because if he can hold his breath underwater for long periods of time, then he can do so as well out of it. Still, he breathes just like she said, and feels himself relax as the air fills his lungs.

He doesn't think he can do it. This is stupid. Usually it's people who ask _him_ , not the other way around. He's a Lord of Sin, he shouldn't even _want_ to do this.

Ione's cheek presses against his arm, an anchor, the warmth spreading to the rest of his body. Leviathan's demon form is reptilian in nature, cold-blooded. He has always sought out the warmth.

He finds himself releasing the tightly coiled glamour and releasing his demon form. Ione gasps, his arm devoid of her contact once again. Her hand never leaves his own, though. After a few moments in which he berates himself for doing something so stupid – what if she is scared now, you idiot? – he feels her shift and looks down, only to find her other hand reaching for one of his horns, startling him.

“Oh, shi- Sorry, sorry! No touchy, got it,” she says apologetically, backing away from him and giving him some space.

Leviathan feels his face grow hot at his own frustration. He shouldn't have looked. “Uh, it's- it's fine. Really.”

She approaches him again, angling her head to look at his tail, lashing nervously behind him. He tries to stop it, but he has never been very good at controlling its movements, not like Satan or Belphie can. It tends to have a mind of its own. Once she's close enough, it sheepishly coils around her ankle, presumably acting on his desire to keep her from leaving his side again.

“Nice,” she says, looking down at the appendage. She looks, and sounds, exactly like that time she had finally managed to draw a particularly advanced sigil from one of her electives – this one she only shares with Satan, he thinks – and the thing had started to glow to signify it was active. After that, a Little D had walked into it and, upon trying to leave, had smacked its little face against an unseen wall. 'Nice' had been the only thing she had said then, grinning at the Little D's plight.

Leviathan doesn't know how to feel about the usage of the same word with the same inflection in this situation, and he doesn't have to, because his thought process pauses at the feeling of her hand pressing down on his shoulder. She is leaning on him, on her tip-toes, trying to reach for his horns. Her tongue is peeking out in her concentration, her face set on a frown.

This is, finally, what makes him fully relax, giving a snort of amusement. “A bit too tall for a normie, am I?” he comments, earning himself a light smack.

“I _will_ step on your tail, weeb.”

Leviathan's tail lashes out in his indignation, though the effect is lost due to it still being stubbornly attached to her ankle. He is about to protest that it is a very sensitive appendage, when she just grabs a lock of his bangs – that she has been insisting he combs back, of all things, like he's _some normie_ – and tugs. “Get down here, you ass. I can't reach.”

With a huff, Leviathan complies. This isn't what he'd had in mind when he called her to the rooftop, but he is happy to see that she isn't horrified by his demonic appearance, he doesn't think he would have taken that hit too well.

Her fingers trace the curves of his horns almost reverently, and he is embarrassed when, in response, his tail only curls upwards, trapping more of her leg. He hopes she knows he isn't doing it on purpose, or at least that she doesn't mind.

“They look like coral,” she comments, talking to herself.

He answers nonetheless. “I'm, uh, of the aquatic variety.” He sounds so lame that he wants to ciber-bully himself.

She hums, deep in thought, and her right hand leaves his horn to slide over the side of his neck. “And these?”

“Oh, uh- Those are just markings. Like natural pigmentation of the skin... Most demons have them. You saw Diavolo's back then, right?” Giving her an explanation is the only thing he can do to distract himself, and avoid bolting away and locking himself in his room for the rest of his life.

“I thought they were tattoos.”

The hand makes its way down, slightly under the loose neck of his jacket. “Uhm, Ione?”

His panicked, high-pitched voice seems to bring her back from whatever mental place she had been whisked to by her curiosity, and she withdraws her hands as if burned. “Ah, sorry. It's just- It's odd, I thought they'd be different to the touch, but they're just part of your skin. What gives them that coloration? It isn't melanin, obviously, because it's blue. Is it the same pigment that makes your tail and horns dark purple as well, and your hair?”

Those are... a lot of questions, and Levi honestly has no idea, he has never even thought about it. They could probably look it up on the devilnet... No, wait, he has something to do.

Leviathan gives himself a mental shake, he keeps being distracted and postponing it and her answer won't change no matter how much he waits to ask, so procrastinating is stupid. He should just- _do it already_.

“I want you to make a pact with me,” he blurts out, and curses under his breath. Really? No preamble, just asking. No, that's great, brain, thanks. He appreciates it.

Ione doesn't answer, seemingly stuck with her mouth hanging open, saying 'uh' in a constant, monotone voice. Finally, her mind reboots. “I'm- not sure what you expect to get from it, honestly. I don't think my soul is very shiny, and also I kind of need it? I think? ...do I need it?”

“Uh, yes? _I mean_ \- I don't want your normie soul!” This is going nothing like he planned it, and he just wants to go back to his room and binge watch some magical girl anime that will renew his hope in the inherent power of love and friendship and rainbows. But he is here, now, on the rooftop of his school, and why should he keep being jealous of some characters having their perfect, all-powerful friendship, when he can have one himself?

Ione fidgets, shifting her weight from one foot to the other like she does when she's nervous. His tail has, seemingly, traveled upwards again, and is now trapping her whole leg as well as part of her hip. It doesn't seem to bother her, mostly because she lacks the personal bubble most people develop in their life, but Leviathan wishes the damn thing wouldn't do whatever it wanted.

“I don't- I don't want that,” he continues, trying not to think too much about it. “I just... You're my Henry, okay? I want you to keep being that.”

He really hopes that conveys what he is trying to say. He's shit at talking with people without a computer acting as buffer, and when he isn't using a headset or a keyboard, he can never say the things he really wants to.

“Ssooo,” she starts, with that tone she uses for repeating things that he or Mammon say that she thinks are particularly stupid. The one that seems to say 'did you really think about what you said before saying it?'. “So you mean to tell me, that you are offering yourself to me in body and soul-”

“W-well that sounds...” he stammers, but she rises a knowing eyebrow and his mouth clicks shut. That is, usually, what a pact means. She didn't have to say it _like that_ , though.

“And you're doing that, in exchange of my unconditional, and everlasting, friendship?” she finishes, her eyes boring into his with rised eyebrows as if she is making sure that, yes, that is what he wants. Leviathan nods, feeling his cheeks burn, and she bursts in laughter, making his stomach drop. Then, “Oh, you absolute _weeb_. Why are you always so extra? Yesterday you didn't talk to me the _whole day_ , and when we got back to the House of Lamentation you locked yourself in your room until this morning. I thought you were mad at me! And now this? Where is this coming from?”

“I was!” he bursts, before he can stop himself. “You spent the whole ball dangling from Lucifer's arm and didn't even _look_ at me!”

“Wh- I did! But when I started looking for you, Beel told me you had already gone back to your room. You left _forty five minutes into the ball_ Levi! You didn't even give me the chance to dance with you, you shitty weeb. _I'm_ mad at you!” Her yelling at him could have been intimidating, if it wasn't for the fact that she is significantly shorter than him and she has to crane her neck all the way back to see him. Also because of his tail, which is still very much coiled around her like she is his new Ruri-chan body pillow.

“Oh,” he says, dumbly, “sorry.” He thought it had been longer. Those minutes had felt like an eternity to him, seeing how perfect she looked with Solomon and Lucifer. Even Diavolo had looked like he belonged to her side. Like some sort of Sun and Moon deities straight out of one of his animes.

Ione huffs. “It's fine, but if you want to be my Pact I'm going to need you to tell me these things. I can't be your friend forever if you keep pissing off without telling me why.”

Wait, what?

“You'll do it?” Leviathan had honestly thought that he had fucked up.

“Well, _yeah_. Look, you're my friend, okay? Why, you even got me a lightbulb,” she grins.

Leviathan covers his face with his hands. Not that again. She will never let him live it down. How was he supposed to know that the vitamin D lamps and the heat ones for reptiles were different?! “A-anyways! Let's do it, then! No chickening out like a normie!”

Ione snorts. “Alright. So do it, _weeb_ ,” she says, making him bristle even as he kneels before her. It's been ages since he's done this, but he wants to get it right.

“I, Leviathan, Avatar of Envy, pledge myself to you Ione. That we may be bound by an unbreakable pact, this, I swear to you on my name as well as the very blood that runs through my veins,” he recites, feeling his power crackle and settle, recognizing her as his master. Then, he freezes.

Ione fidgets where she stands, though he can only see her feet, kneeling as he is. “Levi? Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing!” he hastily replies. “Uh, where-? Where should I leave the mark?”

A confused silence. “Isn't it supposed to go in the hand...?”

“Not really.”

“Oh.” A pause, then, “where do you want to place it?”

Leviathan feels his face burn, this time even spreading to his chest. At least while he's kneeling she can't see him. Except from his ears. She's definitely seeing is red ears.

Well, she can't just- ask something like _that_! What is he supposed to answer to that?!

...where _does_ he want to place it?

He could save himself further embarrassment and leave it on her hand, albeit not the one that already has Lucifer's mark. They would interfere with each other if the marks are too close and the resulting dissonance could have adverse effects on her and, by proxy, them too. So anywhere near her right hand is out.

He could leave it on her other hand... but he doesn't really want to? He doesn't feel like that's the right place – call it instinct – and finding the right place is important because she has to channel his power, after all, and it would be more difficult for her if he places the mark somewhere with low affinity.

He could leave it in her forehead and laugh his ass off for the rest of her life... but then she would order him to scratch all of his CDs and she would never allow him to play a game ever again.

Deep in thought, his eyes stray to his tail, coiling up and up it goes, like a snake around its prey. Most people would be uncomfortable by this, on account of its weight and the fact that it is rather heavy. It's mostly muscle, after all.

Following its path, his eyes finally reach its end, where, embarrassingly enough, his tail has slid up beneath her shirt enough to make it ride up and show a thin stripe of skin. Usually, Ione would be wearing her RAD jacket all buttoned up, but the weather had been rather hot lately, and so she had taken to carrying it slung over her satchel, much to everyone's amusement, as under it were still the same tacky shirts she had taken to wear as of last week.

There is an undeniable pull from that expanse of skin that prevents his eyes from straying away and, before he even knows what's happening, he has pulled the fabric further up with his tail, keeping her steady with his hands on her hips. He hears the faint sound of her voice, sounding again like she is above the water and he is swimming in lazy circles around the stalagmites, enjoying the feeling of the warm liquid flowing around him. His reverie ends the moment his lips touch her skin, making her startle, and Leviathan immediately pulls back, mortified. There, winding around her navel, he can see his mark, already bonded to her skin.

His head snaps up. “I'm sorry, I-”

“It's fine, Levi.” Much to his surprise, she is as red, if not more, as him.

Leviathan swallows. “Still, I should have asked first.”

“Eh,” she says, waving a hand as if to disperse the awkwardness in the air, “I did ask where you wanted to place it, so...” She pauses, whatever she was going to say lost forever, as she inspects her navel. “Holy shit, Levi the inside of my belly button is black,” she whispers, fascinated.

“Uh, yeah,” he responds, dumbly, realizing that his hands are still very much on her hips and that he might not want to remove them, for some unholy reason. “There's supposed to be a teardrop there.”

“ _Cool._ ”

Leviathan would have liked to stay in that rooftop for the rest of eternity. Just him, his best friend, the moon above and the city below, but in the end they are found skipping classes by Lucifer, about an hour into a very interesting conversation about how fucked up Madoka Magica was and why Ione should not like Kyubey nearly as much as she does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts!
> 
> -ever since the pool incident Ione changed Levi's name on her phone from 'sailor weeb' to 'handsome squidward'
> 
> -Levi was supposed to have his chapter in chapter three, because I wanted to write the brothers in order, but he rejected me many times and so I had to wait until now because he is a proper lady. I must admit that the extension of my notes for this chapter was 'pool hair back hot brain goes brrrrr pretty face pretty'. Literally. Like, I have a note on my phone titled 'Levi Chapter' that just says that, past me was feral
> 
> -the alternate title of this chapter was going to be 'Notice me, senpai' lol
> 
> -also please please please don't say 'update soon' in your comments? I understand that there is no malicious intent behind it, but they make me feel like you're nagging me, and my willingness to do something is indirectly proportional to the amount of nagging I get to do it. Needless to say... it's counterproductive :')


	8. Phobos*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Satan appreciates someone who has the balls and the willingness to piss off his brother, and Ione has both. She's kind of a bad influence tho
> 
> or
> 
> Gee Satan, how come mom lets you have plot relevance? :(

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -IMPORTANT: as stated in the new tags, I will add trigger warnings on the end notes whenever I think the content of the chapter might be upsetting. If you are easily triggered or if you have major phobias please be safe and check them out before reading. Any chapter with trigger warnings will have an asterisk on the chapter title. If there is something that you would want me to add as a trigger warning please feel free to tell me, be it via a comment or even a private message on my twitter or tumblr (listed on my bio or at the end notes of this chapter). Love u bbys <3
> 
> -I think that out of all the brothers, Satan is one of the two that Ione relates to the most and vice-versa
> 
> -For this chapter I took inspiration mostly from Satan's chats, they have so much unexplored potential!

If there is something positive to say about the new exchange student, he thinks, is that she has a very interesting way of testing people's boundaries and limits. Take Lucifer, for example. Satan's brother does not appreciate people making alterations to their uniforms, even if he never says anything about it. Lord Diavolo doesn't mind, after all, he even encourages it.

But it still annoys him.

Ione must know, Satan thinks. There is no way – when she saunters into RAD, after her three days of 'resting at home for a mild cold', wearing the most horrible shirt known to man, and looks at Lucifer in the eye as she passes him – that she doesn't know what she's doing.

Satan can appreciate that. If not her boldness and the fact that she deliberately annoyed Lucifer – and let him know it was on purpose – at least that she seems to be a thorn on the side of his brother. That has always been a recipe for someone interesting, in Satan's book. Not many people get to be as vexating as possible to his brother and live to tell the tale. And by 'not many people' he means two: Diavolo and Simeon.

Speaking of which. Currently, the surprisingly interesting human exchange student is having a conversation with said angel, looking displeased. Odd, considering that she is speaking to Simeon, of all people. Maybe he complimented her shirt and ruined the whole purpose of it. What's the point of wearing something that obnoxious if it isn't to irritate everyone around you?

Sadly, by the time Satan manages to make his way to them, Luke has reached them as well and the conversation has veered towards his latest batch of cookies.

Oh, well. He will find out, eventually.

* * *

“The museum is holding an exposition of Dantelion's new works this week. People are saying that he has surpassed himself.”

He isn't sure why he starts the conversation. He had been on 'watching duty' with her on two occassions now, and they had never struck one, both of them sitting at opposite sides of the fireplace without talking. The scratching of pencil on paper as she furiously took notes was oddly comfortable, and he had even found himself missing the sound lately, when the only thing that could be heard in the library was the creaking of the firewood and the turning of the pages.

Ione seems as surprised by this as he is, though she quickly schools her expression into something more neutral. “Oh? I've never heard of him. What is his art like? Style-wise, I mean.”

“I believe that human terminology would describe his style as abstract cubism, but it is vastly different in many ways,” he says. Despite the many armchairs available in the planetarium, she has elected to bring with her a blanket to set on the floor, as if she is having a picnic under the illusion of a thousands stars.

He drags an armchair to the border of her domain, where the blanket ends, and makes himself comfortable. Her attention, which had returned to the papers strewn in front of her during the lull in their conversation, switches to Satan as soon as he sits.

Blinking the new wave of surprise away, she says, “I, uh-” Then she stops, tilting her head to the side with a narrowed gaze. “Do you... want to go see it?” she asks, slowly, testing the words as they leave her.

“Ah, in fact, I came here to ask you myself.” A lie. Satan isn't sure why he came here, himself. Curiosity, perhaps? The new exchange student has resulted to be more interesting than expected, so what is wrong with wanting to know more? “Shall we go this evening, then?”

She clicks her tongue. “Can't, I promised Asmo I would go shopping with him today. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, then,” he agrees, and opens the book he was carrying with him back to his room. All is silent for a few beats, then, the scrapping of pencil against paper resumes.

Satan relaxes further on the armchair with a slow exhale, and enjoys his book until Asmodeus comes to pick her up.

He finds the absence of her continuous writing oddly irritating.

* * *

“Do you enjoy literature?” he asks, eyeing the scattered quotes pinned to the cork board.

“Some. I'm not, like, a connossieur, or anything like that.” Downstairs, there is the sound of someone rumagging through a cabinet, or a drawer, and of muttered curses. Then it stops. “Why do you ask?”

“I saw that you have a few quotes and short poems here, and I wondered. I don't think I've ever read this one, 'I am but a garden yet to bloom',” he reads aloud. The noise of something falling startles him. “Are you alright?” he asks, alarmed.

“Yeah, yeah, fine. I'm almost ready,” her voice answers. She must have dropped something trying to go faster. Honestly, he should have followed Asmodeus' example and picked her up himself a bit before their agreed time. She had been so absorbed in a Herbarium that she had completely forgotten what time it was, and he'd had to wait for her as she took a quick shower.

“No rush, the museum isn't going anywhere. About the quote...?” Satan has to admit, he is rather curious.

Silence stretches for so long that he thinks she hasn't heard him, then, “My father wrote it.”

His interest is piqued, yet again. “He was a poet?”

“No, he-” She hesitates for a moment, then continues. “He just had this little notebook, that he kept with him. He wrote a bunch of things in it, and some poems as well. But he wasn't- he wasn't a published author, he just liked it.”

Satan hums to himself, rereading the quote. The bone-white strip in which it is written seems to have been torn from a bigger piece of paper, old enough for the lignin in it to turn it a yellowish color. Then, he realizes, amused. “You do the same.”

“What do you mean?” there is confusion in her voice, but also, inexplicably, a hint of wariness.

“With the little notebook,” he explains. “You have one, as well. Do you also write poetry in it?”

“I- no. I don't. They're just notes,” she says. There is a finality to her tone that makes him drop the subject.

He can't help but notice that she talks about her father in past tense, though he isn't a stranger to people not wanting to talk about their past. He lives with them, and everyday is an exercise of pretending that there was nothing before the Devildom.

For Satan, it comes easily.

* * *

The walk to the museum is surprisingly pleasant, as Satan discovers that she is quite knowledgeable about art. Human art, at least. Their arrival to the museum interrupts their conversation about the most notable differences between the two world's artistic currents, and Satan isn't sure if to be disapointed that they arrived at all. Next time, he should make sure that they take the long route. It isn't as if she would notice, anyways.

“So, there's magic interlaced with the paint?” Her eyes are curiously scanning the space, flickering from the windows to the ceiling. Before, he would have thought her to be nervous, but now he can see the hint of interest in her expression. She had admitted to find the architecture in the Devildom very interesting, on their walk here. Satan isn't sure what she means by that. To him it's all pretty normal, but he supposes that if he went to the human world he would notice the small differences as well. He would have never thought that the same human that had described Lord Diavolo once as 'a pretty chill dude', would be so fascinated by stained glass, but here he is. He will just have to accept that the image of her he had constructed is slowly crumbling, and move on.

Satan nods, a reflexive movement, given that she isn't looking at him. “Painting is considered a school of magic, although rare. It's called exciology.”

“Isn't that one of the electives for second year? What is it, exactly?” Ione looks at him, her head tilted. They are finally inside the gallery, and the quietude of the room makes her voice and their footsteps echo. They're the only ones here, by virtue of being early.

Satan stops before the first piece, examining its furious red strokes in contrast to the perfect aquamarine lines that seem to encapsulate them. “The paint is personally made by the painter with their pigments of choice, as well as some magical elements that act as catalysts, and imbued with magic during the process. Then the paint is applied to the canvas in a very specific way that creates a spell, like in our runology elective.”

She hums, inspecting the painting herself. “...the shape defines the spell, then. And I suppose that the difference is that there are no rules, so to speak? As in, the talent of the artist lies in knowing how to paint the spell while making it visually appealing?”

“Exactly,” he says, pleased by her quick understanding. “Although the inherent beauty of what is depicted has become secondary to the spell itself. You see, past artists sought to make beautiful paintings first, and the magic was an afterthought. They were usually of the animated portrait variety, that is to say, cursed to move in certain ways. Like eyes following you as you move, or changing position within the world of the painting. Then the spells became more complex and layered and the figures began to talk and, in later years, even leave the painting partially or fully during short periods of time. Later artistic movements even trapped animals or human souls within the painting as part of their charm, saying that the beauty resided in the fleetingness of their life in contrast to their eternal soul... but I digress. Currently, their appeal lies in introspection, or the ability of the artist to convey an abstract feeling to the audience.”

“Neat,” she mutters, straightening. She had been leaning closer to the canvas to see the texture of the thick paintstrokes, slightly rising from the canvas and creating shadows that added to the composition. “This one didn't do anything, though.”

Satan has a brief thought about how her scrunched up face, no doubt in disappointment, is kind of cute. It is gone as soon as it came though, and he is left to flounder in its absence. Luckily, she doesn't seem to notice. “Sometimes a painting speaks to you, sometimes it doesn't. With Dantelion, it's usually about your 'affinity', so to speak. In this particular exposition, about your affinity with certain fears.”

“Ah,” she says in realization, seeing the title of the painting for the first time. “I've never been claustrophobic, no.”

They walk through the gallery, mostly in silence save for the odd comment about one piece or another. To his surprise, she takes quite a liking to Haematophobia, and is particularly fascinated with Astraphobia and Hydrophobia, though she gives a wide berth to one particular painting, perhaps not wanting to trigger it. He doesn't question her and doesn't pay attention to the name of the piece, and in turn she doesn't point out how he deliberately avoids one, himself.

In hindsight, perhaps the fact that they were both attempting to avoid some of the paintings should have been telling enough to make him realize that, perhaps, this wasn't the best place to start their tentative friendship. But Satan has never been one for perfunctory attempts, it's all or nothing. And what better way to know what hides in her depths than Dantelion?

As if aware of his thoughts, Lady Misfortune, or perhaps Fate itself, plucks the string that lead their evening to ruin.

They had been too distracted, too engrossed by their conversation, to notice when they approached the magnum opus within this exposition. The piece hangs ominously on a room devoid of other paintings, the black carpeted path leading deceptively towards it. When Satan finally realizes what is happening, it is already too late.

He drifts off mid sentence, suddenly aware of her vacant expression. She is looking at the painting, the only one in the room, but he doesn't think she can see it. The piece is mainly black, the colour swirling in its center like a black hole. The green, spring-like, edges of the canvas bleed into a diseased brown as the colour is dragged and sucked into the darkness at its core, giving the impression of rotten, decaying leaves. From the blackest point, the center, he sees movement.

It's slow, at first, just a hint of something stirring within the paint. The small shape multiplies and grows more active, thousands of chitinous, scuttling forms emerging from the depths of the darkness.

The walls around them succumb to decay, making the air smell sweet and putrid like a corpse left to rot in the sun, as their surface is slowly overcome by the sea of ants that keeps gushing out of the painting like so much black tar. All around them the minimalistic seats begin to rot and are immediately covered by plants, their roots digging into the now softened wood like worms eating their way through a spoilt apple. The same plants attempt to sprout on the walls, only to be immediately drowned under the rising tide of insects.

The reaction is more violent than he could have ever expected, the painting responding violently to Ione's presence and spreading its area of effect like a cancerous growth. Its infection advances too fast to be contained, and Satan realizes with horror that, if he doesn't do something quick, it is liable to engulf the whole museum. Ione, when he calls to her, is unrresponsive, staring unblinking at the point where the ants keep spurting like a severed artery.

This is a problem, mostly because the only way he has of stopping the malfunctioning spell from spreading is moving Ione away from Dantelion's rampaging masterpiece. He spares no second thoughts to the action, scooping her up bridal-style and striding towards the nearest exit as fast as he can. The corruption seems to follow his escape through the halls with a murmur of scuttling insects, and he only realizes that some of the ants have started to fall from the ceiling, like the starting of a rainfall, when one of them lands on his hand, immediately feeling a horrible sting and the acrid smell of acid. He manages to shake it off without dropping Ione, and quickens his pace when a cursory glance behind him reveals that the throng of ants has started to flood the floor as well.

Satan deeply dislikes cursing. It's vulgar and unnecessary. But still, _shit_.

He runs out of the gallery like the building is on fire, and only stops when he realizes that the walls and furniture around him aren't succumbing to decay anymore, the air finally free of putrefaction.

Then, a new problem presents itself; Ione can't be seen like this. At some point during their escape, she slumped against him like a puppet whose strings had been abruptly cut, as if the power of the painting was the only thing keeping her semi-conscious. Now her head lolls with each of his movements, and her limbs are dead and laden. If a demon were to see her in such a weak state, her vulnerability would be almost like an invitation for future attacks, and he and his brothers can't be with her all of the time, try as they might. Every change of class at RAD is an ambush waiting to happen.

Not to mention, if word spreads that the new human is so weak that she fainted just by visiting an art exhibition, the detractors against Diavolo's project will rear their ugly heads, and advocate for the expulsion of humans from the Devildom, saying that they are too weak and that it is for their own good. The same old rethoric, but now with additional evidence. Satan doesn't particularly care about Diavolo's vision or Lucifer's loyalty to him, but it is true that if they achieved a sort of equilibrium between the realms, he would finally be able to visit libraries and book stores from the Human realm as well as the Celestial one. So. That's that.

Beneath this, the insidious need to keep her from harm grows like a sprouting seed, taking root and making him hold her a bit tighter despite himself.

Finally, he spots a door marked as an emergency exit, and a set of stairs at the other side. It must be a fire exit, he thinks as he deposits Ione on the plain concrete. It's clean, but obviously not a transited area. Just what he needs.

A quick inspection reveals that Ione is, luckily, unharmed, and after a few minutes she finally wakes up, though Satan prevents her from sitting up. It wouldn't do to have her faint again.

“What...? Where are we? What happened?” Although she frowns at the hand on her shoulder, keeping her from incorporating, she doesn't try again, frocing herself to remain still.

Satan, sitting on the stairs, one step below her, leans down to better inspect her eyes, making her freeze in response. Resisting the sudden, and completely uncalled for, urge to chuckle at her reaction, he explains, “We got too close to one of the paintings and it had a rather adverse effect on you. Sometimes the spell of a painting, especially from an artist like Dantelion, remains on the eyes of the beholder, causing further unpleasant effects. I'm checking to see if that is the case with you.”

That makes her relax, his face close enough to hers that he can feel her exhale of relief. Suddenly, he is too aware of their proximity and the way he can feel her breath on his own lips. Concentrating on searching for the after effects of the painting's magic becomes a bit difficult, after that.

After a few moments, she speaks, and he feels her lips ghost over his skin. Her voice is quiet. “What did the painting do?”

“It started to rot the walls and everything around it, and ants came out of it. Plants, too, though they didn't last long. If the ants didn't engulf them, they succumbed to mildew and decay soon after sprouting.” His voice is quiet too. For some reason, he is unable to move or look away. “Because of the ants,” he adds, immediately mourning the loss of his wit.

“Ah,” she simply says. She doesn't look away, either. There is a beat of tense silence, then, “Is there something in my eyes, then...?”

He immediately pulls away, trying not to look too flustered. Probably failing, too. “No, I- I couldn't see any signs of it. You should be fine.” He clears his throat. “However, if you experience any symptoms like fainting spells, memory loss or nightmares, do let me know.”

“Memory loss?” She sits up in a casual motion, too deliberate to be true.

Satan wants to pry, knowing that something has upset her – other than the nightmare that just chased them through an art gallery – but yet again refrains. “Nothing big, just things like not remembering what you ate for breakfast, or where you put something. Even if you experience these effects, they will fade with time, so you shouldn't worry. Just tell me and I will see what I can do.”

She plays a bit with the hem of her dress, its pale pink fabric falls over her legs up to her shins. “Alright, then.”

Satan reflexively covers her hand with his own, making it still and fall limp. “Are you okay?” he finds himself asking. He is briefly surprised by the real concern in his voice, then he remembers reading in the library, and the distant sound of a frantic pencil taking notes.

“Yeah, I'm- Wait. What is that?” Ione takes his hand between hers, inspecting the black spot that has tainted his skin where the ant bit him earlier. The stain seems to have spread in black trendils that form a cobweb under the surface, their originating point an oozing, small, pustule. “This- Satan this looks like gangrene. What the hell happened? Actually, no, give me a moment. I'll fix this.”

Satan himself is too disoriented by the discovery of his own dying skin to analyse her last phrase. He hadn't even noticed, having forgotten all about the ant that bit him in his haste to get away from the colony. Had they bitten him somewhere else, him not noticing in the moment? No, the sting had been painful enough that he would have felt it. More importantly, as a demon, his healing capabilities should have kicked in almost immediately for such a small wound. That it wouldn't heal in mere minutes, and even reaching the point of becoming gangrenous... it is worrying. Just how powerful was her resonance to the painting, that it would destabilize it so violently that its effects would linger even after she left its vicinity?

His train of thought is interrupted, however, when he feels the numbness of his hand subside, followed by a brief wave of pain, and then a ticling sensation. The index and middle finger of her right hand are pressed to the black stain as she carefully holds his hand with her left, the points where her skin touches his are aglow with golden, liquid-like light. Her gaze is fixed on their joined hands, too occupied with her task to notice his staring as she softly murmurs under her breath. Then, finally, his hand is healed, and he carefully pulls it from her grasp to examine her work.

The golden light lingers for a moment under his skin even when she isn't touching him anymore.

Not even a mark is left. As he traces the back of his hand with a thumb, he swears he feels her magic seeping in to him still, warm and golden, like liquid gold on his veins. “You can do magic,” he states, looking up. It isn't an accusation, just a confirmation. Saying it aloud makes it easier to believe.

“Um, yeah?” her confused expression tells him that she has no idea why it would be something remotely important or even interesting. A quick glance towards her right hand confirms what he had already seen before; the pact mark on her index finger hasn't reacted at all, meaning that she didn't draw any magic from Lucifer. It was all hers.

“I wasn't aware, is all,” he says, as casually as he can.

* * *

The evening, as disastrous as it had begun, ends on a much happier note. In an effort to distract her from what had transpired in the museum, or to have her associate a different memory with him, other than what seemed to be quite a deep trauma, Satan had brought her to one of his favourite places in the Devildom. So far it seems to be working.

“Satan, look! It's so fat!”

Satan looks away from the cat he had been trying to lure, just in time to see Ione bury her face on another cat's furry stomach and sigh with content. It is, indeed, quite fat. The feline, a grey tabby with green eyes, doesn't seem to mind the intrusion of her personal bubble at all, seemingly content with this situation, or perhaps resigned to it. Satan, who has never experienced burying his face in the tummy of a fat, content cat, is understandably jealeous.

“Awww, don't pout,” Ione says as she finally lifts her face from the furry depths. “I'm sure she'll let you too.”

She motions for him to come near, the movement of her hand accentuated by the fact that she is holding a feather toy. The nearby cats follow its feathery movement, making her look like a conductor directing an orchestra of very attentive musicians. The grey tabby rolls over, and attempts to swipe at it, only to fall off the table, much to her disappointment. She then walks away, acting as if nothing happened and she isn't interested in the feather toy at all. Ione turns at him with a grimace, mouthing an unnecessary 'sorry'.

“It's alright,” he says, “she wouldn't have let me anyways.” His tone is more dejected than he would have liked.

“You sound so sure.” Ione lifts an eyebrow at him. Behind her, a cymric – male, he thinks – prepares his attack against the feather toy. She, however, inadvertently moves it as she gestures, making him miss his mark and land on their table, where he promptly sits and begins to preen as if that had been his intention all along. “What makes you think she wouldn't have?”

To demonstrate, Satan slowly extends a hand to the cymric, who immediately jumps from the table to the floor. “All I can get them to do is play with the feather toys, cats do not seem to like me much.”

Ione makes a face that he doesn't know how to decipher. Something between indignation and disbelief, maybe. “But you _love_ cats!”

Yes, he wants to snap, but cats don't love _me_. Instead, he says, “I suppose they can feel that I'm a demon, despite not showing my real form. Cats can see all dimensions at the same time, after all.”

There is a pause, longer than usual, in which she merely squints at him, as if she is weighting his words. Finally, she shrugs. “You're just too tense, is all.”

Satan lifts an eyebrow. “I am not.”

“Yes you are,” she scoffs. The waiter finally comes to their booth carrying their orders on a tray. A slice of apple pie for Satan, a whole burger with fries for Ione. Their drinks of choice a frapuccino and lemon soda respectively. Once the waiter is gone, Ione picks up one of the fries, pointing it at him. “You always are. Especially when- Hm.”

Satan takes a sip of his frapuccino. “It isn't like you to refrain from saying something,” he points out, earning himself another grimace. Obviously, whatever it is that she was about to say, she doesn't think he will like it. “I don't bite.”

Her eyes narrow at his assurance. “Often,” he aquiesces with an amused smile. Ione huffs, rolling her eyes.

She takes a bite out of her burger – massive enough to be something that Beel would order – and chews thoughtfully, staring out of the window at the street below. This cat café is secreted away, and their clientele is very select, making it an obscure location. Very few people know it exists, and the few who do have to pass an interview to be allowed to enter. The owners are very careful with the safety of their animals. It would seem like an extreme precaution, if the café wasn't located in the Devildom. “What's with you and Lucifer?” she finally asks.

“I could ask you the same question,” he snaps, startling her. He forces himself to take deep breaths, he doesn't want to lose control here, out of all places.

Ione draws circles in her small pool of ketchup with a fry, her eyes down. “Sorry, I shouldn't have asked something so personal.”

“It's-” Satan starts, but he isn't sure what to say. 'It's complicated' doesn't even begin to cover it. He ends up frowning at his pie and taking a big gulp of frapuccino.

“He's kind of a dick.”

Her muttered comment wasn't meant to be heard by anyone, he is sure, but that doesn't stop Satan from almost choking on his laughter as he is forced to spit part of his frapuccino back into the venti cup. “He is, isn't he?” he agrees. When he looks in her direction, she is no longer staring at her plate, grinning at him with her nose scrunched up just enough to make her expression edge on menacing. Satan finds that it is rather contagious. In a fit of boldness, he says, “I'll tell you if you tell me.”

Ione snorts, and takes another surprisingly big bite out of the burger. Her cheeks are puffed up as she chews, staring at the plate lost in thought. When she is done she licks the ketchup out of her thumb. “He's just-” she starts, still looking at her hand. “His whole attitude pisses me off. It's like he thinks he knows better than everyone else, like he _is_ better than everyone else. Can't even fully admit his flaws.”

“He is the Avatar of Pride, after all,” he says, earning himself a glare. Satan can't help but chuckle.

The conversation drifts off after that, Ione staring out of a window with a blank expression. Finally, she sighs, and starts drumming her nails on the table. “He told me that I should 'get help'.” She spits out the last two words as if she finds their combination personally offensive. “I mean, he just- He spent _two whole weeks_ ignoring me when he asked me if I was okay and I told him that, no, I wasn't- And _now_ he acts like he suddenly cares? Fuck you and your 'help', asshole, I don't need it.”

Ah, so that's why he has been in such a bad mood since it was his turn to watch her. “What did you tell him?” he prompts, propping his elbow on the table and resting his cheek on a closed fist.

“To piss off, and to get out of my room.” The last part is muttered, her cheeks red, no doubt thinking about how childish that sounds.

Satan bursts out laughing, startling the cyrmic, who had made a reappeareance in the hopes that she would still be waving the feather toy around. Sadly for him, it now lay forgotten on the seat beside her. “Oh, that is priceless!” he says, earning himself a laugh of her own. “What face did he make? Was it like sucking on a lemon? I bet it was.”

Ione makes a thoughtful sound, making a show of thinking about it as she taps her finger against her cheek. “I think it was more like someone had lovingly caressed his face with a dead, stinky fish.”

When his laughter finally subsides, Satan eats the last bit of his pie. He is quiet when he says, “I wasn't their brother, originally.” At her silence, he continues. “You could say that Lucifer gave birth to me, in a sense. I was born out of his anger towards his father, right before the end of the war. By the time I came into existence, they had already fallen. They all act like they don't hate it here, but they do, they miss their days as angels, but this is just- This is all I know.”

There is a stretch of silence that he spends frowning at his cup, wondering why he even felt the need to tell her at all, feeling raw and pathetic. The sound of her voice brings him back from that place. “Every time they reject this, they are rejecting you.”

It sounds so clean, the way she says it. And it is, it does feel like that. Like he is an outsider, like they would rather have- If they could, they would probably go back and do things differently. Avoid her death, even if it meant that he...

Without Lilith's death, Satan would have never come to be. In a sense, he was born from her demise.

“I had a friend in a simmilar situation,” she says. His disbelief must have shown on his face, because she lightly taps his leg with her foot under the table in an admonishing manner. “His mother had him when she was just a teen,” she continues, as if she hadn't casually tapped the Avatar of Wrath with her foot. “He had to grow up pretty fast and learn to take care of himself, because she was just- a mess. She never acknowledged that she was a mother, living her life from one party to the next, treating him more like a little brother than anything else. She even seemed to resent him, sometimes.”

Alright, he had to admit, that was pretty accurate. “How did she raise him?” She didn't sound like she would have paid much attention to her baby.

“His grandma did, but she died when he was still pretty young. About the age her mother had had him, more or less,” Ione explains. That makes more sense.

Her D.D.D. makes a sound like wind chimes, the screen lighting up. A message. She throws a cursory glance at it, but makes no move towards it, waiting for his answer. “What did he do then?” he asks. He also wants to ask if her friend's mother ever came to treat him as a son, if she ever stopped resenting him for being born.

“He got a job as soon as he could and left,” she says.

It isn't what Satan wanted to hear, but it seems sensible enough.

* * *

His fight against Lucifer is rather childish, all things considered, but it doesn't stop him from slamming the door as he exits the Hoouse of Lamentation, this time for good. He had given it consideration, after his chat with Ione at the café. The thought had grown stronger and stronger with every passing day, spreading beneath his skin like the tendrils of that gangrenous tissue. He felt just like his hand had, that day at the museum. Numb. The days and hours crawled over him slowly, and he saw reminders of his brother's grief and the past they didn't share with him everywhere. Woven into the brickwalls and the wooden floors, into the dust that settled over the topmost shelves of the library.

Everyday felt more oppressive than the last, and every day, he grew more angry. He couldn't help it. He was the Avatar of Wrath, after all.

In the end, he snapped.

His D.D.D. rings as he unboxes things, a couple of days later, in his new apartment. Satan had only taken the essentials with him when he left, and Beelzebub had offered to bring him the rest. He had politely declined, and asked him to put the boxes he had filled beforehand outside, where the moving van could get them.

He ignores the sound until it stops, and huffs in annoyance as he receives yet another message. Levi has been quite insistent. Satan decides that enough is enough, and is about to throw the damn D.D.D. into a wall when he sees the name of the mysterious caller in passing. It turns out to be the same person who had sent him a message just now.

After a few minutes of staring at the screen, he decides to answer.

**Ione:**

where r u?

**Me:**

327 Anathema Street. Apt, 6B.

Send me a text when you're here.

**Ione:**

open

Satan is surprised when her answer arrives with a mere ten minutes of delay. When he opens the door to find her carrying a box with the silhouettes of cats drawn all over it, he realizes why. “That obvious, huh?”

Ione shrugs, looking around her. “I mean, why wouldn't you? I would.”

Well, she isn't exactly wrong. It's a nice part of town, not too expensive, but not too cheap either. The fact that the cat café is on the building in front of his own also helped in his decision. A wise one, if the smell of pie that is drifting off of that box is any indication. She must have been picking it up on the café when he answered. He guides Ione to the sitting room, thankful that the only place that still has boxes is his room due to his exhorbitant amount of books. “I bought it, you know? The café.”

Ione stops admiring the room from her seat in his new sofa. “You, Satan, the Avatar of Wrath, own a place called Nyacchi.”

He doesn't falter before her deadpan expression. “I have plans to expand it to the third floor as well, it's been empty for a while and the price is reasonable. It could double as an animal shelter.”

As a 'supporter to the crown' he, like the rest of the Lords of Sin, receives quite a hefty sum. Payment for lending his power to deter any demon of a noble house that might want to stage an accident for the Prince, or even flat-out try to start a rebellion against him. The hierarchy in the Devildom has its perks when you can crush most of the other demons under your heel, he supposes, though that also means that he has accumulated quite a hefty sum of grimm over the milennia. He doesn't even know what to do with it.

Satan also suspects that Lord Diavolo might have bumped up the number a bit now, to keep him loyal even when he isn't under Lucifer's thumb. Speaking of which. “Diavolo told me to convince you to go back,” she confesses as he sets down the tray with tea and a pair of spoons and plates to eat the pie in.

Satan freezes only for a moment. “Did he, now?”

“Yeah, I told him I'd try,” she says, picking up the knife and cutting the first slice. He busies himself by pouring the tea, adding an exhorbitant amount of sugar to hers.

Ione slides a plate towards his side of the coffee table and he narrows his eyes at it, displeased. “ _Pumpkin_?”

“You left without telling me, you ass, you don't deserve apple.”

Fair enough. And it isn't like the pumpkin pie tastes bad either way, he just likes the apple one better. “If he asks I'll tell him you tried your best,” he says as a peace offering.

“I mean, I really gave it my best shot. I came here under the pouring rain, playing our song on a boombox and threw little stones at your window. All very standard procedure,” she finishes, stuffing her mouth with pie. She doesn't bother with the spoon, rather picking the whole slice as if it was a piece of pizza, the heathen.

They talk mostly about mundane topics, safe topics, about the drama Satan is watching currently, about that new spell she is trying to get right, about the intricacies of pie crust. Then she grows serious. “Hey, uh, can I ask you for a favour?”

Satan, full of pie as he is and having progressively abandoned his proper posture on the opposite couch in favour of sprawling, merely lifts an eyebrow. “Which would be...?”

It takes her a moment, but finally she asks, “Can I sleep here tonight?”

He turns his head to stare blankly at the ceiling. “Are you still having the nightmares?” She had told him about them as soon as they had started. The day right after their visit to the museum. He had tried to find the residual magic responsible for it, but he had found none. Whatever it was that she had seen that day, it had been enough to earn her a ticket to nightmare town, and it didn't seem like she would return any time soon.

“Yeah, sort of,” she says. Her tone tells him that there's more to it, but by now he knows Ione well enough to know that pushing will only serve to make her shut him off. She will tell him when she's ready.

He feels a little bit helpless. All his knowledge, and he can't help. What is he, an amalgamation of the books he has read? What is his knowledge good for? What is _he_ good for? “Sorry,” he says to the ceiling.

She sighs, sounding exhausted. “It's not your fault, Satan. Can I stay or not?”

“I'm offended that you would even ask,” he says, then grows angry at her silence. “That is to say that of course you can.”

“Oh.”

“You really thought I would send you on your way after you brought me pie?” he jokes to hide his growing bad mood. Satan likes to think that he is more observant than the average demon, but sometimes, he wishes he wasn't. Sometimes, he comes to realizations that not only are useless, but also quite infuriating. Like, for example, the fact that she always expects people to turn he away, or the fact that she feels the need to subtly bribe people in order to get them to do things for her. As if she didn't think that she was worth the effort.

“No,” she says after an awkward, short pause. _Yes_ , the pause says.

How irritating.

* * *

Satan has never slept in the same bed as her before. He might be the only one, now that he thinks about it. Except for Lucifer, obviously. But the magma under the Devildom will turn to a solid chunk of pure obsidian before that happens.

As they lay that night on his new king sized bed – they could stretch as much as they wanted and never touch, it's so vast that it's daunting – he turns to the side, finding her on her already facing him. Her eyes are half lidded with sleep. One of her hands is extended a bit outwards, calling like a beacon from the other side of the white expanse of sheets. If Satan wanted to, he could reach and bridge the gap.

“He called me ungrateful, you know?” he says. “Like I asked to be born.” He's angry, but for some reason, he feels his eyes burn hot, as if he is about to cry. Odd.

“Well,” she says, “I'm glad you did.”

Her fingers brush against his. Satan doesn't know when he reached out, but he holds on to her hand and doesn't let go.

When he wakes up the next morning, her face is closer than he had expected. They must have drifted towards the center of the bed during the night. Or towards the warmth. Or towards each other. They are still holding hands.

He watches her sleeping face for a while, how the shadows fall over it like snow covers the land in winter, still and silent. It's odd to see her so relaxed, but even stranger is to remember the tension of her shoulders when she is awake. Is it even real, or is he imagining things? The image in front of him makes it seem like an impossibility, like this is her natural state of being, instead of the forced casualness with which she conducts herself when she is awake.

The early morning grows old until it dies and is replaced by an early noon, and he can't find any more excuses to stay in bed staring at her, so he carefully extrincates himself from the sheets and resumes his labour from yesterday. He finally has enough shelves for all of his books without having to pile them on the ground, so he might as well fill them.

An hour and about four boxes of books later, Ione is still sleeping, and Satan decides that this is a good time to start cooking lunch. He will wake her up once it's done. She has to make up for all of her lost sleep, and he doesn't mind sheltering her where Lucifer can't make her attend RAD while sleep-deprived. He himself has been excused from attending this week, and there's no doubt that Lucifer knows where she is. And if he doesn't... well, let him worry. Who cares?

Lost in his thoughts, he freezes upon realizing what is still sitting innocently on his kitchen table; a pamphlet of Dantelion's exhibition, opened by the description of the most important piece. He stares at the page, knowing full well what is written on it. After all, he has read it many times, trying to make sense of the contradiction. Perhaps he will ask her, one day. Today, though, he balls up the pamphlet and throws it in the trash, the lid closing with a final, satisfying thud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -TW: mentions of teen pregnancy, implied unwanted pregnancy, gratuitous descriptions of a great number of ants and also rotting... stuff??? bit of a disturbing scene, really :/ If you think you could be triggered by this feel free to dm me on twitter or tumblr (my username is below this) and I'll give you more details or tell you which scenes you have to avoid, k? It isn't too upsetting to me but you never know ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> -Btw I finally decided to use the twitter account I made ages ago, so if you want, go pester me at @ysmirel (same on tumblr). I think I'm going to start uploading some sketches of Ione with the boys and some behind the scenes fun facts (because the end notes of the chapters are getting too long and I'm sure that's quite annoying...) when I have free time
> 
> -*inhales* barista satan barista satan barista satan barista satan barista satan barista satan
> 
> -I changed my username in Obey Me to Ma'am and everytime someone calls me that my power grows.  
> Soon.


	9. Deimos*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ione's sleeping schedule goes to shit, but on the bright side, she makes a new friend :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...have been a bit down lately so I haven't felt like writing in a while... I'm kind of feeling like this isn't good? Because I guess people come here to read about romance but tbh it's a secondary thing to the story I want to tell, so I kind of feel like I'm deceiving people... Idk don't mind me :/ Srry for not answering your comments btw I uh... don't feel like it atm... I do read them tho, and I appreciate each and every one of them so a big thank you to everyone, they do make me feel better and i reread them often <3
> 
> Also just a bit of a heads up, this fic is taking a turn towards horror real fast so... uh... sorry about the lack of romance this chapter? Love doesn't really have much to do with the plot, and I do have to advance it from time to time so... :')
> 
> Trigger warnings in the end notes.

Ione had never liked hunting. The first time her father had taken her on one of his trips – she was fourteen and had finally gotten a special hunting license – and she had killed her first hare, she had cried so unconsolably that her father had finally relented and buried it for her.

The grave had been marked solely by a stick that had been stuck to the ground, and then surrounded by a few rocks to keep it upright. She should have known, in hindsight, that without the proper tools and using only his hands, even her father's best efforts would have made the hole too shallow. At the time she hadn't, though, which is why on the way back, when she took a small detour to say goodbye after four or three hours of hiking with her father, she hadn't been expecting to see the body covered by ants.

With how shallow the hole had been, the only way to cover the body had been to pile dirt on top of it, creating a small mound that rose above the surrounding flora. It was now crawling with red ants, thousands and thousands of them. So many that she could almost smell their formic acid. Feel the memory of its sting when, as a little kid, she had let one crawl on her out of curiosity. The dirt was barely visible under them.

The ants had partially unearthed the body, entering the carcass through its eyes, its mouth and nose, the bullet wound that had killed it.

It was repulsive.

Ione hadn't reacted, then. She had merely rejoined the trail where her father waited and walked back to the car in silence, falling asleep on the passenger seat on the road home.

She had gotten better about hunting over the years, when it had become one of the ways in which she could spend extra time with her dad. She rarely ever brought a rifle with her, only near the end, when her father couldn't shoot anymore, himself. It was never just for sport, either, the animals were always taken with them to be properly cleaned and stored on a freezer for later consumption. If nothing else, it had helped her to have very good memories of hiking with her dad, and while she couldn't see the appeal of going hunting by herself, the experience had undoubtedly helped her to have a healthier mindset towards death.

Sort of.

Except- Maybe it hadn't.

It was hard to tell, if her romanticization of death had originated then, or if it had been influenced by other factors. It had contributed, surely, because seeing the life leave from a body so many times did something to you, even if they were only animals. It brought a sort of peace with it, a reconciliation. An understanding of what was to be expected, even.

There was death. And then there was nothing.

Oblivion.

Decay.

* * *

“Come now, litte Poppy, you don't want to be left behind, do you?”

The stupid-sounding nickname, a term of endearment born of her father's favourite flower, had been coined by her father when she was still a baby, and she had never quite managed to grow out of it.

They are walking up a particularly steep trail on the Pyrenees, and Ione is having a bit of a hard time keeping up. She stopped going hiking a few years back, and she has lost much of her stamina ever since, so following her father's pace is proving to be more difficult than she had thought.

She stops for a bit, resting her hands on her knees and breathing heavily as she hears his footsteps getting further away and up the mountain. The sound makes her panic, unexplicably, and she calls out for him to wait. Just one minute, please, is all she asks. One more minute, an hour, a day- _Just don't leave_.

“Wait, dad!” Her desperate voice echoes around her, the trail before her empty. It must have been summer, because throughout the path, it had been prominent the presence of forget-me-nots, myrtle and blueberry bushes, either blooming or ripe with fat beries. The same plants that had made for a pleasant scenery, however, now grow more abundant and, as she advances on the path, they take over the floor, almost covering the trail completely. “Dad!” she calls again into the emptiness.

“Who are you?”

The voice of her father startles her, suddenly beside her as if he had never left. She turns to look at him, but there is no recognition in his eyes. She is a stranger. “Who are you?” he asks yet again, his voice warbled.

As she stares, horrified, at the familiar face, something squirms beneath the skin of his left eye.

Unaware, her father's blank eyes continue to bore into her. “Do I know you?”

Two, then three small shapes crawl out of his eyelid, then more, until there is a deluge of ants finding their way out of his eyes, his nose, his mouth. Slowly, slowly, the red ants start eating him from within. “Who are you?” he keeps asking, even when a thousand tiny bodies fill his throat, making the sound almost unrecognizable.

The forget-me-nots sink their roots into his skin, growing and squirming under it until they breach it again, the new blooming flowers covered in putrid, coagulating blood. The corpse dissolves where it stands, leaving behind only a skeleton covered in greenery.

“Who are you?” Ione asks, as the flowers start to wilt.

She wakes up without any fanfarre – a nightmare such as that, she thinks, should have been accompanied by a scream, or startling awake, or cold sweat. _Something_ – and stares at the ceiling in silence, just like she stared out of the window of a car years ago.

* * *

The museum was a catastrophe of inmense proportions. The events had been triggering enough to unearth her old nightmares, dusted off and ready to haunt her anew. She had all but forgotten about the hare, the ants, the forget-me-nots and the sour-sweet blueberries; but that accursed painting had not only managed to awaken these memories, but to sear them over the old scars like a brand. Like they had never healed in the first place, fitting perfectly over the old damaged tissue.

She hadn't slept the whole night, and though the fleeting thought of seeking out Beel had crossed her mind, if only briefly, the concept of movement seemed completely foreign to her. As if she had always been there, laying on a bed with her eyes wide open. As if her existence could be confined to this mattress, this sheer canopy covered in daisies, these four walls that breathed with her.

The three knocks are, finally, what makes her move. Three knocks over and over and over again. Perfectly spaced. Perfectly even. Like the person on the other side of the door has all the time in the world to wait, and enough patience to keep knocking on forever, or until she opens her door.

This could be the rest of her existence, staring into the darkness while she listens to these three curt sounds, then silence, then this wooden staccato again, ad infinitum.

She doesn't know how long she waits, as if time has lost its meaning. Seconds and minutes are discarded in favour of the three knocks and their predictability. A longer pause than usual pierces through her haze; then there's a single knock, one sharp stab of sound that slices through the silence and echoes in the emptiness of her skull.

Ione jerks into a sitting position like she is surfacing from a pond, breaking into the fresh air and feeling the movement of her lungs like something alien inside her, expanding her ribcage. Her eyes, when she blinks, feel dry, and immediately start watering. Has she been blinking at all? She isn't sure.

She doesn't bother turning on the lights.

Yesterday, she felt off-balance. She had made a beeline for her bed without bothering to take her clothes off, or closing the curtains to keep the moonlight outside. She must look like a wreck but, though a part of her screams at the thought of letting anyone see her in such a poor state, she doesn't have enough strength to do anything about it. In fact, she only has enough to walk to the door and lean her forehead on the cool surface, all motivation suddenly lost. She thinks she might just sit here, her back against the wood, waiting.

Just- waiting.

But she can't do that.

She takes a deep breath and places the hand on the doorknob. “What is it?”

Even though it's a question, her words lack all inflection, and she winces at how coarse her voice is. The answer she gets has a much pleasant, steadier, tone. “Open the door, please.”

Polite. She hadn't expected that, after their last conversation. Not that something like a 'please' would have been expected from him in any situation. “What do you want, Lucifer?”

“I will not have a conversation through a door.” The finality of his tone leaves no room for argument. She will open the door, or he will.

Ione would rather not have a broken doorknob.

She opens the door with a weary sigh and winces at the light of the hall, her migraine making itself known with a stab of pain. For a fraction of a second, Lucifer's eyes widen, his mouth already moving as a frown starts to form. She cuts him off before he can speak. “Don't. I'm fine. Just- it's just a migraine.”

The frown doesn't leave his face, even deepening further, but he purses his lips and she can see the moment he decides to drop the subject, feeling relieved despite herself. She is aware that she must look like death warmed over – an amusing comparison to use out loud at a later date, if Lucifer gets too irritating. He seems to dislike being reminded of her past near-dalliance with good old Grimmy-boy – and she doesn't need a reminder or anyone nagging her about it.

Luckily, Lucifer seems to have something more important than that to worry about. “We leave for Lord Diavolo's castle this afternoon.”

“...And?” She already knew that, he can't be here just to inform her of it.

“And it has come to my attention that demonic etiquette is completely foreign to you, something I intend to fix this morning.” The implied 'or else' is left unsaid, but Ione knows that this is not something she can escape from. At least without the usage of their pact.

Then again, if she starts abusing her power over Lucifer, how is she any better than he was with her when she arrived here? The feeling of hopelessness was what had led her to the edge in the past, and she does not want to know what Lucifer would do if he started to feel cornered. And besides, she has no intention of using the pact against him for such nimious things, seeing as how he had agreed to it just to even out their power imbalance.

It would feel... wrong. Like abusing his trust, or something.

“Sure,” she says. Amusement slithers its way through the muddled waters of her mind at his incredulity. It lasts but for a moment, but Ione can tell that he expected some fight from her on this matter.

She doesn't know why, exactly, she would fight it. If it wasn't because her head feels like it's splitting open and the general internal imbalance, she wouldn't mind, really. After all, she doesn't want to make a fool of herself at some fancy ball, and learning the proper etiquette is quite helpful for that. Besides, right now it seems like just what she needs to find her footing again.

It has always helped her to fill her mind with new information, to absorb so much knowledge that the scattered thoughts inside her just- stop, as if they are crammed up in her head with no more space to move about anymore, forcing them to settle. Yeah, this will help ground her.

Or at least, that's what she hopes.

* * *

“You said yes and you don't know what it is?” Solomon is sitting on a plush chair, with a steaming mug of something that Ione can only describe as the vomit of a zombie with a terminal illness. He rises an eyebrow in disbelief, taking a sip and almost making Ione gag in the process.

She turns her head back towards the window in an effort to not see it anymore, she doesn't think her stomach can handle it. In contrast, the night sky outside soothes her soul, and her gastric acid. “What, like I had any other option?”

“Oh well, I suppose not.” A short pause, like he is drinking yet again. “The difference between that and a pact is quite simple. In a pact, the human gets to have power over the demon, and even channel their magic to do spells of their own. In this case, however, you are both bound to your word, quite literally.”

Ione frowns despite the excellent view of the gardens that sprawl before her. The Demon Lord's castle is every bit as beautiful as the brothers had described it, but she still wishes she could go back to the House of Lamentation. It isn't home, but it's still a more familiar environment. “You mean, like some sort of demonic NDA?”

“Well, the oath is, in essence, a contract. There are stipulations that both of you should abide, and if broken... well, there are repercussions. So, yes.” The porcelain clinks against the crystal table as he sets his cup down. “If I may, can I know what you asked for in return?”

“Hmmm, nope,” she says as she turns her back to the window, safe in the knowledge that he has finished his calamity of a beverage. “Sorry, it's too personal.”

Solomon smiles serenely, his eyes crinckle in a way that unsettles her. “I see, I will look forward to the day you feel comfortable telling me, then.”

“You know that sounds shady, right? You _have_ to know.” Ione is sure that for a moment the bastard had smirked, like a badly written love interest in a young adult novel. “Nevermind, I don't want to be pulled into your mindgames.”

His exaggerated sigh is amusing to see. He's an interesting guy, that's for sure. Ever since she had met him, Ione had found not only a treasure trove of information, but also a sort of partnership that she wouldn't have thought possible to find in the Devildom. It was reassuring to have someone she could ask about everything she didn't know, comfortable in the knowledge that he wouldn't judge her for her ignorance. After all, he comes from the same world as her, and knows the differences in their culture better than anyone. The downside? He likes to stick his nose where it doesn't belong.

Not that she can judge him for it, after all, she is no different. “Hey, Solomon?” she asks after a lull in the conversation. “What do you know about the seventh Lord of Sin?”

* * *

The compulsion returns to the stairs eventually, although its call is feeble, a weak attempt in comparison to the beacon it had been in the past. The spell is mostly congregated on the upper part of the stairs, and its threads dwindle as they reach the bottom, save for a lone cord that stretches down to the floor like a lighthouse in the dark.

Whoever put the compulsion there again seemed unable to reach further.

The single string snaps easily enough when she gives it a sharp tug, the whole web vanishing without it. Ione repeats this process every time it's renewed, the growing frustration from its other end so thick in the magic that she can almost feel it crackling over her skin. She thinks she gets the point across rather well. She is no fly. She will not fall prey to the web, no matter how many times it beckons.

The attempts, having become weaker with each new woven spell, finally stop. And then there is silence. An angry absence that chills her to the core.

* * *

Ione stares at Levi's messages as she walks to the kitchen, wondering what he wants with her on RAD's rooftop. Maybe he has finally gotten tired of her constantly shooting his ass in Overwatch with Ana while telling him it's 'nap time for baby widdle weebs', and is planning to throw her off the roof.

Understadable, really.

She is distracted, however, when she finds Beelzebub already there. This isn't a rare occurrence, or it wouldn't be, if he was eating. Instead, he seems to be rearranging the contents of the cupboards with intense concentration. He doesn't even notice Ione behind him for the first five minutes, and then he's startled when she moves behind him to get to the coffee.

“Morning,” she says, as she pours the glorious, almost black and dense as syrup, liquid into a mug. Devildom coffee is terribly, horribly bitter, but she feels that it compensates for that with the sheer amount of caffeine in it. A mug is probably enough to increase her probabilities of a heart-attack considerably, but she isn't going to tell anyone here about that.

“Good morning,” he greets back. His eyes dart between her and the cupboard he is currently rearranging with a guilty expression, and she rises an eyebrow in response. “It's nothing,” he mutters, avoiding her gaze. Beel goes back to his self-imposed quest of messing shit up, trying not to look too consumed by guilt and failing miserably.

Ione looks on, secretly amused. Part of the reason she is absolutely not telling anyone about her skyrocketing blood pressure is this; Beelzebub has taken to re-arrrange everything so that the things that would be potentially harmful to her are on the top shelves, out of her reach. Part of her is offended, but a bigger part thinks that it's hilarious and is just letting them think that she hasn't noticed so that she can, one day, move a stool to get something from one of the top shelves as she looks them in the eye. Like, what, they think she can't move chairs? _Come on_. She hopes that the day after she does that they try to baby proof the whole house. Just, the whole thing.

Will Lucifer put a baby gate at the bottom of the stairs to the attic? That would be amazing.

For now, though, she is content to bore her eyes into the back of Beel's head and watch how he progressively grows more nervous with each passing second, as she enjoys a potentially lethal dose of caffeine with more sugar than should be allowed on any beverage. It's still too bitter, but hey, it keeps her awake right? That's what matters.

She takes another sip, slurping on purpose, and enjoys how Beel fumbles with a small packet for a second.

* * *

Tonight, it seems, is no exception. Nevermind that she was already upset enough, learning that Satan had left the house that morning without even saying goodbye. Not a note, nor even a message, nothing.

Ione hadn't fooled herself into thinking that they were friends after less than a week of talking, but it had still hurt that he would disappear on her without a word. At least it served to remind her that their relationship wasn't as deep as she had wanted to think. She had fooled herself, thinking that there had been something more to it, after he had told her something so personal that day in the cat café, but she supposes that he just needed someone to vent to.

Ione decides to stop dwelling on that, and focus on not falling asleep. There had been a... _subtle_ change in the content of her nightmares after the ball, and she couldn't say that she enjoyed them much. It's a better arrangement than the last one, considering that she has stopped seeing her father being consumed by ants and plants, but that doesn't mean that it isn't still shitty.

So, walking around the house it is.

At least while she is walking, she is sure that she won't fall asleep, like she would if she tried to spend the night reading in one of the cozy chairs in the library, or even in the blanket on the planetarium. She thinks that if Lucifer finds her sleeping there come morning again, he will start locking her in her room after dinner.

All of her pijamas are in the laundry at the moment, which is why she finds herself ambling the halls, wearing one of the horribly ugly sleeping gowns in her closet, like she is in a bootleg version of Crimson Peak. Except this one doesn't even have Tom Hiddleston or his crazy-ass psychopathic sister to make it interesting. Disappointing, really.

At this point, she thinks she probably knows the house and all of its nooks and cranies better than its inhabitants. She has walked every hall, explored every room – that isn't a private one, of course – and even remembers where each painting is.

Tonight, the courtains are open to let the light of the moon into the house, and the carpeted floors mute her footsteps completely, making her feel like a silent ghost. With nothing better to do, she starts to pay attention to said paintings, admiring their details. When she had seen them at first, they had seemed normal enough, and she had overlooked their oddities easily, but lately, as she had begun to pay closer attention, she had realized that what she assumed to be normal people were actually depictions of demons and angels.

It shouldn't have been as much of a surprise as it was, given that she was in a realm full of demons, and that some of them had been angels once, if her memory served her right. She is sure that the paintings represent specific scenes of the celestial war, or maybe some other event of historical importance to the Devildom or the Celestial Realm, but she cannot recognize any of them. She hadn't been raised in a christian house, after all, and the only member of her family that had been remotely spiritual had been her wiccan-obsessed grandmother. Up until a few weeks ago, her only reference to christian mythology had been the 'not today Satan' meme.

They are still interesting, in their eerie beauty, even if she doesn't understand what they are representing. There is something off about them that reminds her of Satan's explanation at the museum. Is there any painting here with a human soul magically bonded to the paint, she wonders? If so, she has yet to see any. So far, the only things she has witnessed the people depicted in them do is follow her with their eyes, or even change their position within the painting's scene from one night to the next. For some reason, it makes her feel the urge to politely greet these paintings as she passes them, as if they are inhabitants of the house as well. She must look stupid, but it settles her nerves.

She is in the middle of analysing a particularly big painting – it depicts an angel with wings as golden as their rivulets of hair, and their pupiless eyes. Their fiery sword seemed to have descended in a downwards arc towards a writhing serpent, whom had catched it between its maws. The poor thing seems to be burning from within, but still stubbornly refuses to let go of the sword. There is something to the painting, a sort of magic attached to the paint itself, that makes it difficult to stare directly at the shining angel, much less at their flaming sword, as if she is trying to stare at the sun – when a noise startles her.

It's a low, pitiful whine, that soon turns into a painful scream that forces her to cover her ears. There, at the end of the hallway, Ione watches as a woman slowly catches fire as she walks towards her, the flames licking her feet and moving upwards until she is completely engulfed. Her screams, that Ione had thought to be of anger at first, are screams of agony. Or perhaps both.

Eyes as bright and orange as the inside of a coal furnace look at her, and Ione knows that if she doesn't run, that thing will get her. She doesn't want to know what it will do to her if it does, but she is pretty sure that it will involve some degree of burning her face off until her eyes liquify, or something just as horrifying. She turns tail and runs as fast as she can, listening to the sizzle of burning steps over the carpet behind her. She is vaguely aware that something has caught fire at some point during the chase, probably the curtains, because she can see the light of the fire increasing, her shadow enlongating before her with it.

A glance behind her reveals that the hallway has turned into an inferno, the darkened form of the woman closing in on her, her calcinated bones creaking under the strain of her weight. There is no trace of her hair nor her clothes, only the blackened skin that clings to the skeleton, now that all the fat has been burnt away. The thing opens its mouth to scream again, but only embers come out of it. It seems as if the fire has consumed the woman's insides, leaving only a vaguely humanoid shell behind.

Ione turns her head and keeps running, and she doesn't look back again for fear of what she will find. She doesn't know for how long she keeps escaping the misshapen, charred corpse that follows her, but she feels her lungs burn with smoke and her own exhaustion, and she knows she won't last much longer.

A part of her mind vaguely wonders why no one has woken up, now that almost the whole house is on fire; another, more concerned with the immediate danger she is in, insists on finding a place to hide, somewhere safe. Ione doesn't think that there is a safe place in this whole goddamn house, to be honest, but she forces herself to calm down. Panicking won't help her. There must be something. There must be somewhere.

Then, finally, a door. She doesn't remember seeing it before. In fact, as she comes closer to it, she can see that what she thought to be a door in the distance, is merely a rectangular outline in a wall.

_It will be a door_ , her magic insists, urgent, _open it._

Ione doesn't need to be told twice – she is tired, and terrified, and she might have breathed a very unhealthy amount of smoke, which she should do something about very soon. She is sure that her respiratory system has suffered some serious burns from the inhalation, not to speak of the carbon monoxide. She presses her palms over the blackened and ashen surface of the wall, dirtying them and feeling the heat grow closer. Still, she keeps pushing until it gives way, and closes it behind her, drawing a protective sigil on it with the ash on her hands even as a violent coughing fit wracks her body.

The thing is barely visible, dark grey and badly drawn, but when whatever it is that was following her reaches the door and starts banging on it, the flames slipping through the cracks and turning the walls black wherever they touch, the door doesn't budge.

Ione might not be able to see it, but she knows that the creature is still silently screaming, embers flying out of its mouth and singing the wall and the carpet where they land.

She can feel it.

The pounding stops suddenly, then, the flames that had been licking the walls around the door receeding – a relief, because if something caught fire inside this room, Ione would have died in it from carbon monoxide poisoning – but then the scratching begins. A slow, continuous rasp that echoes in the room, from the top of the door to the bottom, over and over again. As if the creature is scrapping off the wallpaper that had once covered the sealed door.

Ione hacks and coughs until a slimy, blackened substance slithers its way out of her mouth, falling to the floor with a wet sound and staining the carpet. _There is something wrong_ , she thinks, her vision becoming blurry. She can't breathe, and she can feel whatever the black tar is slowly filling her lungs. She has to get it out. She _needs_ to get it out.

With trembling hands, she unbuttons the sleeping gown enough to see the dark tendrils that are growing in her chest. The ash in her hands had been used to draw the protection sigil in the door, and so she must turn to the only other thing that she can draw with. Sigils, the teacher had said, are to be drawn with someting that holds power, be it the magic-infused paint of Dantelion's works, or the ashes made by the fire of a terrible creature.

Ione, now, chooses blood.

Not ideal, to be honest, but beggars can't be choosers, and her time is running out. She bites the flesh under her thumb as hard as she can, ignoring the blossoming pain and the way the taste of blood makes her gag, and quickly dabs the index and middle fingers of her right hand on it, hastily drawing another sigil over her chest. The blood is slick and warm, and though she feels disgusted by it, she is grateful for it being easier to draw with than the ashes from before. She is in a hurry, after all, to excise that thing from her lungs before it's too late.

When she is finally done, she is overcome by a fit of coughing even more violent than before, vomiting the black slime-like thing as her eyes fill with tears from the effort. She ends up weakly crawling away from the black mess, leaning on a sheet-covered sofa as she cries in her panic, hiccuping and drawing in short, shallow breaths.

No sound comes from the other side of the door anymore, but Ione stays in the unfamiliar room for the rest of the night, passing out at some point, or perhaps falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -TW: body horror, graphic depictions of ants and plants (you know what I mean), animal death (the death itself isn't described), blood and a burning... person... thing... As stated before, if you think I need to add something tell me pls
> 
> -okay so, you've probably noticed by now, but I might have tweaked Lilith's story a wee bit. Because the whole thing was, honestly, annoyingly bland and very, very stupid. Don't insult me like that solmare, give me some juice.
> 
> -Also full disclosure I haven't played anything from the 'second season' of obey me yet. The new lessons? Too high level for my poor cards lol, so don't expect me to include anything from there. As far as I am concerned, the lessons go up until MC leaves devildom and that's it, I wrote the outline of this babey with that in mind and I ain't changing shit to include some clichey prom thingy (there's also zombies? I think? I've seen tweets but idk if they're joking or not?????).
> 
> -I'm going to be making shit up about the angelic and demonic mythology as I go because Solmare is also doing that and because there isn't even a canonical interpretation of this shit so why shouldn't I have fun with it?


	10. Concedere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diavolo: and they were roommates...  
> Everyone else: *gasp* oh my god they were roommates!
> 
> In which Diavolo infodumps and Lucifer might have done something right for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't stress enough how much your lovely comments have helped me these past days, I still don't feel ready to answer them one by one, but just know that every time I felt like my writing wasn't good enough I went back to read them and they kept me going. This chapter goes out to you <3 <3 <3
> 
> Also wow, we're all depressed bitches in here, huh? I hope you guys get better as well, just remember: 'this, too, shall pass'. Love you, guys.
> 
> This is another plot-heavy chapter, I hope you like it :')

Ione had thrown herself into Lucifer's lessons with a ferocity he hadn't been expecting. Lucifer had hoped to get belligerent compliance at best, but he had found dedication instead. He had been surprisingly pleased, he had told Diavolo, but also wary. With the new exchange student, he had said, getting a seemingly positive reaction wasn't always good. Sometimes, it was a sign of an underlying problem.

Diavolo now awaits her arrival impatiently. He had only met her once, when she had been first summoned to the Devildom, and merely seen her in passing on the corridors of RAD, always in a hurry to get to her next class. Finally having an opportunity to converse with her – it isn't like the prince of the Devildom has many opportunities to talk to humans, and he finds the cultural differences quite interesting – is a rare treat that he only gets to enjoy because, for once, his personal interests overlap with his duty.

Today had been the first day of the brothers' arrival at the castle, along with their guest, right on time for lunch. Diavolo had scheduled their meeting to leave her enough time to settle in her designated room, after that, but not enough to regain her balance after arriving to a new environment. He finds that meetings are easier to deal with, when his guests are still a bit unsure of their footing.

Finally, three knocks at the door precede her entrance, guided by Barbatos. “Ione, daughter of Iduna, my Lord,” he announces. The human exchange student performs an impeccable curtsy, testament to Lucifer's teaching talent and, no doubt, of her previously mentioned diligence.

“Thank you, Barbatos,” Diavolo says, dismissing the demon, who, with a parting bow, leaves the room closing the door behind him. To Ione, he says, “Please, don't worry about etiquette. It's just the two of us here!”

His assurance only serves to make her more tense, perhaps because he inadvertently reminded her that she is very much alone with the most powerful demon in all of the Devildom. It wasn't his intention, but what's done is done. “Thank you, my Lord.” She sits on the chair across from him, her hands folded on her lap, drawn in on herself. It is a far cry from the person he met that first day.

Diavolo makes a conscious effort to not purse his lips. He cannot help but feel like this change is, in part, his fault. She wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him, after all. Lucifer might have picked her as a candidate, but it was him who agreed with his decision without even checking her background.

What worries him more, though, is that the Ione on that paper seems nothing like the Ione before him, or the one he met when she arrived. It should have been obvious, when she gave no sign of knowing what was going on, that there was something wrong with her application. Why would there be an application coming from a person that claimed to have sent none? At first, Diavolo hadn't paid much attention to that detail. She had agreed to be a part of the program anyways, and he had other things to worry about at the moment, but after the... incident, Diavolo's attention had focused on their new exchange student.

He had made time to read through her application and the meager files that had come up on her background when she had been investigated as a candidate. Only child, raised atheist (important, meaning that she wouldn't be biased before her arrival), very strong morals and with an equally shining soul to match... and little more. On paper, she read like a virtuous and strong willed individual, not that she wasn't, Diavolo didn't know her enough to judge, but... it all sounded like someone had written her out to be the perfect candidate for this program. And, yes, he might be paranoid, and it might sound far-fetched but- That, coupled with the fact that she insisted she hadn't sent an application, made it seem suspiciously like someone had sent the application in her stead, and then falsified the files to make sure they would pick her.

But why would anyone do that? And how would they manage to not only slip a fake application on the pile, but to also falsify her files? Was there a mole amongst his people? If so, who did they work for? And what was their objective?

“Did you find your accomodations adecuate?” he asks. There will be more time in the future to worry about the implications of that, but for now, he has a guest. His conversation opener makes her snap her head up, her eyes narrowed at him instead of boring holes into the teacup in front of her. Then, she lowers her gaze again, no doubt realizing who she is glaring at. He laughs, amused. “Please, feel free to speak up,” he says.

Ione purses her lips, finally looking up after a few seconds. “Why am I sharing a room with Lucifer?”

Diavolo props his elbow on the table, cheek in hand, smiling. “Well, he is your Pact, isn't he? Sharing a room with one's Pact is just normal.”

“...It _isn't_ , though?”

“Oh,” he says, faking surprise. “I for sure would have thought you'd be pleased to. He is a very handsome demon, after all.”

Ione splutters, red-faced. Then, clearly offended at his insinuation, she says, “You didn't just insinuate what I think you did. Try again.”

Her discontent, strong enough to lead her to speak with such vitriol to the Devildom's prince, is comforting to see. Others... would have leapt at the chance to be the Master of Pride, not exactly for innocent reasons. Not all humans wished to make a pact with a demon for magical power. Diavolo allows himself a moment to feel relieved for his friend, then his face grows serious. “There will be more guests arriving for the ball shortly,” he explains. “Not all of them are satisfied with my decision to bring peace between the realms. Other than my room, the safest place to spend the night will be the one where Lucifer is, so I'm afraid the room disposition isn't up for debate... unless you wish to try the other option?”

He lets his smile return at his offer, laughing good-naturedly at her rushed 'no, thank you'. Humans are so entertaining. His joy is to be short-lived, though. He has stalled for long enough. “Has Lucifer explained to you how the hierarchy in the Devildom is organized? Or how the pacts play into it?” he asks.

Ione's face loses some of its reddish hue, sobering into a serious expression, and she sits a bit straighter. She nods. “He didn't have time to explain it in depth, but I understood enough.”

“Do you know the importance of your position, then?” Understanding where her grasp of their culture begins and where it ends is important, to know which blanks he has to fill.

Another nod, tentative this time. “It sort of affects my– Ranking? Would that be the correct term?”

“It is adequate enough.” Diavolo takes a moment to gather his thoughts, then, “Have you read Dante's Inferno? Or know about the Circles of Hell?”

“I- Yes. I haven't read it, I mean, but I do know about the Circles. There were nine...?”

Diavolo smiles in encouragement. “That much is correct, yes. Though I'm afraid that is about all he got right. The Circles are, merely, the ways in which the Devildom's land is divided. Think of them as provinces, or states. Each one of them, except for Limbo and the Ninth Circle, is under the rule of a Lord of Sin. As the Prince, I am first on the hierarchy and I rule over all of them. That makes us the First Scale. Within it, Lucifer is my second in command, followed in order by his brothers. Or, that is to say, _was_. Your pact with him makes you his Master, and therefore puts you, although rather unofficially, right above him.”

“Oh,” she says, then with dawning realization, “ _Oh, no_.”

“Welcome to the First Scale,” he says, laughing at her reaction. “Whether you like it or not, I am afraid that you are now an intrinsecal part of the Devildom's politic undercurrents.”

Ione covers her face with her hands and groans, the sound muffled.

Undeterred, though amused at her reaction, he continues speaking. “Your lessons this morning had more to do with tomorrow's ball than with today's meeting. You will need to be well prepared for it.”

This makes her resurface from the confines of her improvised shield. “Wait, what? What do you mean?”

“Your pact will be officially announced to the guests.” Diavolo grows serious again, his smile fading. He doesn't want to put this burden on her, moreso after what happened weeks prior, but this is an important matter, and he has no other choice. “Part of the reason for today's meeting was to make sure you would be aware of its significance, its ramifications and the role I hope you will agree to play.”

She frowns, already defensive about what he wants from her, not that he can blame her, he will be asking a lot of her. Before she can speak though, he rises a placating hand, silencing her.

He continues. “As I said before, not everyone in the Devildom agrees with my vision. They say that it's too idealistic, that the angels can't be trusted so soon after the war, that humans aren't worth our time. The fact that the Lord's of Sin are loyal to me, is perhaps the strongest deterrent against them. If there were to arise the possibility of one of them disobeying me...” he trails off, seeing the moment she begins to truly understand her position. _Oh, no_ , indeed.

“When a domino piece falls, the rest follow,” she finishes.

“Exactly.”

She looks to the side, frowning, drums her nails on the table. Then stops as suddenly as she started, her attention back on him. “What is my role, then?”

Diavolo grins, satisfied with her answer. The way Lucifer had described her, stubborn and full of spite, had made him think that he would have to convince her to work with him, or worse, that the pressure would be too much for her. “During tomorrow's introduction, we will make it seem like the pact had been planned beforehand, to foster trust between demons and humans.” After a brief pause, he adds, “I will also need you to swear an oath of fealty to me.”

That gets her attention, as he had known it would, though he can't tell whether her reaction is adverse or not. She looks befuddled, but not exactly angered. “I-” she starts. “What would that entail?”

“I would only ask that you don't interfere with any orders I give to Lucifer, nothing more. I cannot afford the loss of his undivided loyalty, and I need the demons that would rebel against me to know that my word is always absolute,” he explains, his eyes boring into hers, hoping to convery the truth in his words. “You are encouraged, of course, to ask for something in return.”

“Alright,” she says, after a pause that stretches for far too long. Her voice is resolute. “I can work with that.”

* * *

Lucifer is all too aware of her discomfort the moment the room assignments are announced. He knows why Lord Diavolo put her with him, of course, but would it have killed him to assign them a room with more than one bed, instead of Lucifer's usual one?

She eyes the bed warily upon entering, her face in a grimace. She must be the only person in the whole Devildom that would be unhappy about sharing a bed with the Avatar of Pride. Well, aside from Satan, and probably Mammon and maybe Levi. But his brothers don't count, they're his _brothers_. The rest of the Devildom, though? Oh, Lucifer is well aware that they would kill to share a bed, even a room, with him. The thought makes him uncomfortable, to be honest, like he is a piece of meat, but it is what it is.

After a brief moment of consideration, Ione takes her small suitcase to the opposite side of the room to the bed, where the small coffee table with a sofa flanked by two armchairs sits. Lucifer sighs.

“I will sleep on the sofa,” he says, startling her. She turns to look at him, not even trying to hide her surprise, which is honestly quite rude.

“Uhm, It's fine, really,” she says, “I don't mind taking the sofa.”

“Did I stutter,” he deadpans, leaving no room for discussion. She quickly moves to the side to let him through when he makes his way to the sofa, as if the mere thought of touching him is abhorrent. It might as well be, to her, she has made her feelings towards him very clear. He can't exactly blame her – after all, he didn't make the best first impression, or the second one, either – but that doesn't mean that he is going to grovel for forgiveness.

If anything, her obvious distaste is quite refreshing, and also relieving. He won't deny that it is nice to have someone look further than his looks and judge him for who he is, even if they find 'who he is' detestable at best. As for the relief... well, he had been propositioned pacts before, he knew what humans tended to want from him, which is why he never accepted.

At the very least, Lucifer knows that with her, he won't have to worry about any... _unsavoury_ orders, as it had been made obvious by her displeasure at the room arangement. He still isn't sure how to feel at her continuous and blatant rejection, he isn't used to it, but the relief is there.

The evening is mostly uneventful, and he spends it reading in the room, taking advantage of what will most likely be his only moment of tranquility during his stay at the Devil Lord's castle. Ione leaves a few minutes after settling in the room – as much as she can settle when Lucifer is in it as well, he supposes – to meet with Lord Diavolo, although she doesn't come back until it's night-time, much to his consternation. Where had she been?

He'd had their dinner delivered to the room, as he didn't want to face the potential ruckus of dining with his brothers today, and he had hoped to talk to her and reach a sort of stability between them. At least agree to have a cordial relationship.

In short, he wanted to assure her that he wouldn't meddle into her personal life anymore. He just wants to keep things professional. If that is all they can manage, that is perfectly alright with him; he hadn't made a pact with her to be her friend, he just wanted his brothers safe.

But she hadn't shown up.

Instead, she arrives at ten past twelve, way after they were supposed to go to bed, and he knows that she hasn't spent the evening with Diavolo or his brothers, because he had texted them and they hadn't seen her anywhere either.

“It's late, where have you been?” he asks, as he watches her pull out her pyjamas from her suitcase and make her way to the bathroom, no doubt to get changed. She hasn't looked at him once since she entered the room.

Ione glances at him briefly out of the corner of her eye and shrugs. “I was with Solomon, we lost track of time.”

Lucifer disapproves, but he is well aware of her tendency to get angry whenever he intrudes upon her personal life, so he leaves it as it is. He might not like that she spent the whole evening and part of the night with the Sorcerer, but that doesn't mean that he can tell her what she can or cannot do.

Not anymore.

She hasn't used her pact on him again since that day in her room, but he doesn't want to risk making her angry. She is quite volatile, and Lucifer isn't sure of what she will do if he angers her further. Her first order might have been relatively harmless – as orders go, being forbidden from speaking about a topic isn't all that restrictive, especially taking into consideration that the topic in question only pertains to her – but that doesn't mean that the next one will be.

She exits the bathroom after a few minutes, again avoiding to look at him, and slips into the bed, covering herself with the blanket up to her head. Lucifer can't help but feel somewhat amused at her attempt to pretend he isn't in the room. A sort of 'if I can't see him he isn't there' mentality. Quite childish.

He sighs. As amusing as her behaviour is, it's apparent that the best he will get out of her is silence, which is arguably better than her shouting angrily at him, but still not ideal. He only hopes that she will be able to play her part tomorrow. Diavolo had seemed positive about their interaction earlier, and had said that she had received the news well enough, but when it comes to her, Lucifer never knows what to expect anymore.

After a bit, he shuts the book he was reading and settles on the sofa, turning off the lights and plunging the room into darkness. The curtains had been preemptively shut to not let the light of the moon in, as he had noticed that she had specified that she wanted blackout curtains for her room, which probably meant that she could not sleep when there was light. Why else would she want them?

Complete darkness and silence envelops them for a while, and he is sure that she has finally fallen asleep, when he hears her move about restlessly, then sigh.

“Hey,” she whispers, “you awake?”

Lucifer considers simply not answering for a moment, she won't know that he ignored her, thinking instead that he had merely fallen asleep. Then again, if he does that, he won't know what she wants. And he had been the one who wanted to talk, after all. Not like this, whispering to a dark room- but it's a start.

“I am,” he simply states.

There is a long pause, and for a bit he thinks that she might have fallen asleep herself, ignoring the odd stab of disappointment. Then, unexpectedly, “I'll think about it.” The whisper is so low that he thinks he might have imagined it, that he might have mistaken the rustle of the velvet curtains for her voice, but she continues, unaware of his thoughts. “About the therapy thing, I mean. I- I'm not going to take medication. I _won't_. But I'll consider it, going to therapy. If- If you still-”

“You don't have to-” he interrupts, but his mouth closes against his will, almost painfully. The pact's doing, no doubt. After all, he had been forbidden from speaking about the topic.

“...Lucifer?” she asks, after a bit. She must have been waiting for him to continue. Has she forgotten already?

“I am forbidden to speak about this topic,” he says, and hopes he doesn't sound too bitter.

He hears her mutter something that sounds like 'oh, shit, right', then, “I revoke it? The order, I mean.”

Lucifer feels the pact shift, become a bit less constricting with the breaking of his one and single order. He wonders what has brought this change of heart, but he doesn't want to ruin this tentative truce, and he isn't sure if asking will set her off, or even make her change her mind again. He seems to have a talent when it comes to offending her.

“If you decide to go,” he says, choosing his words carefully, “I will make time in my schedule to accompany you.” It won't be easy, because his schedule is practically packed, but it can be done, even if he has to sacrifice a few nights of sleep to finish his paperwork.

She doesn't say anything for a long time, and as time stretches, he worries that he has said something wrong again. Maybe she doesn't want him to accompany her. It would make sense, but it isn't like anyone else has free reign over the gates of hell besides him and Lord Diavolo.

“Goodnight,” she finally says, quiet. It isn't an outright refusal of his offer, but neither it is an acceptance. It is undoubtedly something positive though, and it feels like she is finally acknowledging him, after having been either avoiding him or ignoring him to the best of her ability. Lucifer isn't sure why this acknowledgement makes him feel accomplished, like he has achieved something important. The whole Devildom bows to him and knows of his might and power, and yet, a simple 'goodnight' manages to feel like a great feat.

“Sleep well,” he answers, and tries not to dwell on it.

The next morning he wakes up late, later than any other day before. It might be because of the closed curtains and the missing moon, it might be because her acknowledgement from yesterday lifted a great weight off of his shoulders, and he was finally able to relax after the stress and uncertainty of these past weeks. It doesn't matter. The fact is that they will be late for breakfast with Lord Diavolo if they don't hurry, and as his guests, that behaviour is inexcusable.

“Ione,” he calls as he disentangles himself from the sheets, then, when she doesn't respond, more urgent. “ _Ione_.”

“M'awake...”

“If you are, then get up already,” Lucifer says. He quickly grabs his gloves from the coffee table, putting them on as he navigates the dimness of the room to open the curtains with a swift movement. A pitiful groan comes from the bed, and when he turns to look at her, Ione stares at him with a betrayed expression.

Lucifer, who has already been subjected to Mammon's puppy eyes far too many times, merely crosses his arms, stern. “I won't take pity on you. Lord Diavolo expressed his wish to have breakfast in the company of his guests today, and we will  _not_ be late. Up.  _Now_ .”

For a brief moment, when Ione narrows her eyes at him and Lucifer remembers that he isn't the one giving the orders here anymore, he is hit with the realization that he might have made a grave mistake. But then she pouts and averts her eyes, stretching and muttering, “Yeah, yeah, just give me a minute...” and he feels his shoulders relax again.

Lucifer nods, walking to what he has started to think of as his side of the room, and gathering his clothes for today. After a few more seconds of her stalling, Ione goes into the bathroom to get changed. A glance at the clock has Lucifer clicking his tongue, they are already late, and if he waits for her to change to use the bathroom himself, they will take too long for his liking.

With a sigh, he stares at the closed door of the bathroom, weighing his possibilities and finally decides to just get changed quickly, before she comes out. Women are supposed to take a lot of time in the bathroom, right? He doesn't know why, they do exactly the same things there as men – Asmodeus is an outlier and should not be taken into account – but he has heard many people joke about it, so it must be true... right? Anyhow, he is sure that he can get changed quickly enough.

The fact that she never seems to do what he thinks she will should have, probably, been enough of a factor for him to consider. But alas, he didn't. Which is why Ione comes out of the bathroom at the most inopportune moment.

She had been saying something, when she opened the door, but the moment she saw him she froze, her hand still on the handle. Lucifer quickly buttons up his shirt, doing his best to ignore the way she is gaping, and hurries to put on his vest in an effort to distract himself. He curses internally, he should have turned his back to the door as he put the shirt on, just in case, but now it's too late.

She saw, of course she had to see  _that_ .

Her silence is even more damning than any question, a weight that settles over him and attempts to drag him down. “Are you ready, then?” Lucifer asks, an attempt to dissipate the suffocating quiet of the room. His voice comes out coarse and he only manages to make it more humiliating. He doesn't want to turn back and see her face, there is nothing he hates more than pity.

“I, uh, yeah,” she says, sounding like his question threw her off-balance. _Or perhaps something else did_ , a cruel part of his mind supplies. “I just- I forgot the hair brush out here, I just have to brush my hair and I'm done.”

Lucifer nods, still not looking at her. His throat feels dry. “Do that, then.”

* * *

“It isn't like Lucifer to be late. Ione, darling, is there something you would like to tell us about?” Asmodeus pouts, gently lifting her chin to look into her eyes. Ione has the gall to look unimpressed, Satan snorts and flips a page of his book.

The three of them are sitting outside in one of the gazebos, enjoying the many exotic flowers of the garden under the moonlight. It would have been a perfect date, if it wasn't for his brother tagging along with the excuse of reading outside. Asmodeus turns his pout on Satan and the stupid ball of light he had conjured to read and that is absolutely ruining the mood.

The sound of Satan's book snapping shut interrupts him before he can complain. “Asmodeus is right though, It isn't like him to be late for an appointment with Lord Diavolo, and he actively avoided looking at you during breakfast. Did something happen?”

Ione snorts, but it's pretty telling that she gets up and turns away from them to stare at some of the flowers. Satan and Asmodeus share a look. “I came back to the room late yesterday because I got distracted talking with Solomon and forgot about the time, and he waited for me to go to bed, so it's kind of my fault we got up late this morning.” A pause, then, mumbled, “I also made him sleep on the sofa, so he's probably cranky about that, now that I think about it.”

Satan immediately starts laughing, doubling over and covering his face with the book.

“You made _Lucifer_ sleep on the sofa?” Asmodeus asks, incredulous, and also a bit miffed that his cute brother is covering his face. Satan is so adorable when he laughs, he even gets dimples, it's so unfair!

Ione huffs and looks back at them, seemingly done with her inspection of the flowers. “Well I wasn't going to share a bed with him, obviously!”

“You shared a bed with Beel,” Satan points out.

“And with Mammon,” Asmodeus adds.

Ione's face immediately starts turning red, if it is due to embarrassment or indignation, Asmodeus doesn't know, but he really, _really_ wants to pinch her cheeks. He doubts she will let him, though. “Yeah, well- It's different!” Her protest is so childish that Asmodeus can't help but chuckle.

“Awww,” he coos, “could it be that our human has developed feelings for our handsome big brother?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Asmodeus sees Satan mouth 'feelings' at her with a teasing expression. She sticks her tongue out to him, then turns to Asmo with narrowed eyes. “I _will_ change all of your expensive creams for yoghurt, Asmodeus, don't test me.”

Asmodeus gasps in indignation at her threat. “You _wouldn't_.”

“Oh, would I, Asmo? _Would I_?”

She would.

“So, what are you going to be wearing to the ball tomorrow, darling?” he asks in an obvious effort to change the subject. Satan chuckles, opening his book and hiding behind it when Asmodeus levels him with a glare. His eyes are still smiling with amusement behind the pages, and though it's silent, his shoulders still shake with laughter. Asmodeus turns to look at Ione with an indignant pout, waiting for her answer.

“I brought two options with me, but I still can't decide between wearing the suit or the dress,” she says, her lips pursed.

Asmodeus gasps. “Oh, you would look dashing in a suit! Don't you think so, Satan?”

“We could wear matching bowties,” his brother offers, making her laugh.

“Oh, my,” she says, fanning herself with a hand. “Matching bowties. Sir, have you no shame?”

“How indecent! Satan you should be ashamed of yourself. How could you even suggest that to a lady?” Asmo joins in, shaking his head in mock disapproval.

Satan huffs. “You are both insufferable when you're together, did you know that?”

Ione walks over to sit beside Asmodeus again, directly across from Satan. “We are not,” she says.

“You just can't handle all this charm,” Asmodeus continues, and Satan groans into his book.

Shortly afterwards, they are joined by Simeon and Luke, along with Solomon, who immediately hoards Ione's attention all for himself. Asmodeus would have spent the rest of the morning being miserably jealeous about this, himself, if it wasn't for the brief unhappy glances Satan shoots their way as he is roped into a conversation with Simeon and Luke. Asmodeus joins in, from time to time, but watching his brother grow more and more annoyed at his failed attempts to get Ione's attention back is infinitely more amusing.

Oh, he could watch this the whole day. Especially after a discreet smile from Solomon tells him that the Sorcerer is well aware of what he is doing. If Asmodeus had worse control, he would have dissolved into giggles after that. How mean.

* * *

Spending time one on one with the new exchange human is harder than Diavolo had thought. All the brothers, with the exception of Lucifer, seem to naturally gravitate towards her like moths to the light.

“I have heard that you enjoy the arts,” he says to her, over dinner, and five sets of eyes immediately snap up from their plates or D.D.D. to look at him, before looking away in a conscious effort to hide their sudden interest. Her outing with Satan to the museum had been the talk of the Devildom these past days, as it had been unexpected to see the Avatar of Wrath on what seemed to be a date with one of the human exchange students. If the nobles at tomorrow's ball see this reaction from the brothers at some point of the night, the gossip will be endless. He continues speaking as if he hadn't noticed, and files this information for later. “May I take you on a tour of the castle? We have amassed quite a number of artworks over the millenia that I think would interest you.”

Ione seems surprised by his sudden offer, the cup tilted over her half open mouth, frozen in time as she pauses to look at him. “Uhm, sure. I mean- Thank you, I would like that,” she acquiesces after a short pause.

There is a small, pregnant silence at the table, broken only by the angels and Solomon, who keep dining, unaware, or perhaps willing to ignore, the awkwardness. The silence ends whith Lucifer clearing his throat, making his brothers immediately start acting with forced normalcy. Diavolo chuckles when Lucifer sends an exhasperated look his way that silently asks 'did you really have to do that now?'.

Of course he did, it wouldn't have been so amusing otherwise.

“How have things at the House of Lamentation been?” he asks her, later, when they have been talking for a while. Part of the reasons he wanted to show Ione around the castle was to get her to relax around him; it wouldn't do to have her act so tense during tomorrow's ball. Another part of him genuinely wanted to ask how she had been doing. He hadn't been able to bring it up yesterday, and he feels that he is just as responsible for her wellbeing as the brothers are, even if she isn't directly under his care. It was his idea to bring her here.

She falters in her step, but covers it up quickly. “I'm- I'm better, thank you,” she says, curtly. Maybe she clashes with Lucifer so much because they are both incapable of showing vulnerability without wanting to immediately kill all the witnesses. Diavolo knows the type: concerned about everyone else's wellbeing but their own, too proud to let anyone in unless it is absolutely necessary. Or perhaps, he thinks while looking at the tense set of her shoulders, too scared to.

Diavolo sighs, and is about to try again, when she stops in front of the next painting he was going to show her.

“Oh, I know this one. It's the garden of Eden, right?” she says, looking ecstatic at being able to recognize the scene.

Diavolo smiles. “Why yes, it is. I suppose the story is popular in the human world, though it retains only the bare bones of the true events behind it.”

That immediately piques her interest, and she turns wide curious eyes on him, waiting for Diavolo to explain further. So far he has had to explain the in-depth story behind every single artwork he has shown her, not that he is complaining, it is good that she shows interest, but at this rate he will have to invite her over another day just to finish showing her around.

“The beginning of the story is almost the same,” he starts, “God allowed Adam and Eve to live in the garden, so long as they didn't eat the fruit from the forbidden tree. Though the usual story calls it _The tree of the knowledge of good and evil_ , and it isn't exactly wrong, I think other cultures describe it better as _The world tree_ that spans all three realms.”

“Like Yggdrasil in Norse mythology?” she interjects.

“Yes! That is a fine example!” Diavolo claps her in the back, almost making her fall over and earning himself a disgruntled glare that he chooses to ignore in favour of continuing the explanation. “There are also other myths about the forbidden fruit, like the goddess of apples that also granted the gods infinite youth in norse mythology, or the golden apples of immortality in greek mythology that were in their own version of the garden of Eden. The story has been fragmented and retold many times, but the important parts tend to remain, like the tree and the forbidden fruit being stolen. Even the serpent appears many times throughout human mythology, like Aapep, the serpent of chaos in Egyptian myths.

“In truth, as the story goes, God allowed Adam and Eve to live in the garden of Eden, where the tree grew, in exchange of guarding it and making sure that nobody would eat the forbidden fruits it bore. However, he didn't tell them what the fruits did, instead lying to them and telling them that anyone who tasted them would die at the first bite. The serpent, a demon who had shapeshifted to gain entrance to the garden without being noticed, when apprehended by them, then told them the truth: that the fruits granted immense power that could rival God's own, and that he had secreted the tree away in the Human realm so that no Angel or Demon would gain the power to oppose him. The humans then, enraged at having been lied to, decided to eat the fruit, and gifted one to the demon as well, as a sign of gratitude. Still unaccustomed to their new power, they were easily driven away by the legion of Angels that God sent their way, but the damage had already been done.

“It was after that when God, in an effort to protect himself from the three, forged the Seraphim, and assigned one of them to the garden, to guard the tree from further theft. Though some people say that the tree was cut down by Eve, who used its branches to make wands and give them to her disciples, the primeval witches. But that is mere speculation,” he finishes.

Ione blinks twice, then, “Damn, the original is way more interesting. But wait, what happened to them? Adam, Eve and the Serpent?”

“Well, my dad is sleeping under the Devildom, coiled in his serpent form. It would be a problem if he woke up, actually,” he says matter-of-factly, though he is quick to reassure her upon seeing her horrified face. “He has been sleeping for millenia, though, so you have nothing to worry about. As for Adam and Eve... well, no one knows for sure. You have already heard one of the theories circulating. Another one is that they just faded away.”

“Faded away?” she echoes, scrutinizing the figures in the painting with a frown. “But I thought the apples granted them immortality?”

Diavolo grimaces, this might be a sensitive topic, all things considered. He should have thought about it before telling her the story, but he can't just avoid answering her questions now, that would be rude of him, and she is his guest. “They didn't die so much as just... gave up on living...”

When Ione speaks, her voice is small and devoid of emotion. “Oh. I see.”

“As the story goes, they lived long, happy lives,” he explains, his voice soft. “But they were still human, and all of their loved ones were as well. They couldn't keep watching everyone around them die, so they decided to move on. It's just one of the theories, though,” he is quick to reassure her. “It's only one of the most popular ones because their souls became a myth to the Devildom akin maybe to the Holy Grail in the human world, only with infinite power instead of youth.”

That, finally, gets her attention. “Wait, what?” she asks, turning a confused frown on Diavolo. “What do you mean?”

Diavolo tilts his head. “What do you think that demons do with human souls?” he asks cautiously.

When she shrugs, he explains, “They eat them to gain power. The purer, the better. One's status in the Devildom is given by the amount of power one has; the most powerful demons form the First Scale, then demons of lesser power from the Second Scale, and so on. Eating a human soul is an easy way of ascending in the pyramid of power, and by far the most common.”

“Well,” she says after an awkward pause, “that makes sense, I guess. About demons famously asking for your soul in exchange of something, I mean. I guess I never thought about what they did with them afterwards. Wait no, I did once with my friends in college when I was really, really high at a party. We discussed it for a while and ended up deciding that they were probably used as demon currency, or something. Uhm, sorry, I'm ranting. So there's demons searching for the souls of Adam and Eve like some sort of relic that will make them as powerful as the King? Where would they even be?”

Diavolo laughs, in part because it was rather funny, and in part to help her feel more at ease. “I have to admit, thinking of them as 'demon currency' is a very logical conclusion to reach. But you have nothing to worry about, consumption of human souls has become quite rare over the centuries.”

He doesn't tell her that it's only due to the nobles in power not wanting to be challenged, and restricting access to the Gates in order to make the acquisition of human souls neigh impossible. Nowadays, the only ones that can come and go from the Human Realm as they please are Diavolo and Lucifer, and the rest of demons either need a permit – granted only by filling an endless amount of paperwork, and after careful consideration by a council of corrupted eders paid to reject any petitions – or to be summoned.

“Besides,” he continues, “after your pact with Lucifer is made public tomorrow, you will have nothing to worry about. As for the souls, some demons believe they were reborn again, some others think God keeps them trapped in the Celestial realm... the theories vary.”

Ione grows somber at the mention of tomorrow's plan, her eyes focusing back on the painting, her mouth a thin line. Diavolo risks setting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Lucifer will be by your side every step, as will his brothers, and I am sure that neither Simeon and Luke, nor Solomon, will let anything happen to you either.”

Though she startles at the touch, she doesn't remove his hand, and Diavolo is rewarded with a small, grateful smile at his words of encouragement.

“Ah, before I forget!” he says, and starts guiding her away from the painting with the help of the hand still resting on her shoulder. “Come, there is something I wish to give you. You can take it as a welcoming gift, if you want. After all, I never had the chance to give you one, did I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Diavolo be like 'Ione did'ja put your name in da goblet of fiyah!?'
> 
> -I cannot tell if, in 'my lord' the 'my' should be capitalised or not. I have been stressing about it since I started writing this chapter a month and a half ago, but I can't find anywhere on the internet that explains the proper capitalisation of 'my lord' so idk fuck it I guess
> 
> -I'm making up my own demon hierarchy because there isn't an established one and the demonologists don't seem to make up their fucking mind. I swear, one day I'm going to storm the vatican to demand answers, like just grab the pope by the collar (but gently bc my respect for old people is at war with christian bs) and be like 'dude i'm tryna write an old testament fanfic here I need better source material, get ur shit together and don't make me call u out for the column of flagellation on twitter that shit wasn't right and u know it'
> 
> -Also I legit wanted Lucifer to give us a tour of the artwork during the lessons at the castle. Like I know it was just an excuse to go to his room but come on >:T


End file.
